Finding Tír na nÓg
by The Duchess Of The Dark
Summary: Three years after the Golden Army was dismantled, an English Witch and sometime BPRD agent stumbles across a resurrected Prince Nuada Silverlance. How & why has he returned from beyond the veil? Is he still a danger to humanity?
1. The Lost Prince

Finding Tír na nÓg

It is bitterly cold and I don't know where I am. I open my eyes, slowly, the left first, then the right. It's dark, but a shaft of blue-tinged light comes from somewhere above. My breath shows as dancing steam on the air, leaking from between chattering teeth. I can hear the irregular drip of water nearby. I realise I'm lying in a couple of inches of water that smells of moss and decaying things. Uncertainly, I stretch out my hand, skating the heel through the water, and push myself up onto my knees. Instantly, I regret it, pain lancing through my temples like a heated knitting needle. Bracing my weight on my palms, I try to breathe through it, blood pounding in my ears. I feel sick, saliva pooling in the bottom of my mouth.

_No, no. Don't puke,_ I think, fiercely. _It's concussion, don't puke._

Unfortunately, I've been concussed often enough to recognise the symptoms. Gingerly probing the sticky gash above my left eye, I swear, looking at the poppy red staining my fingertips. Sitting down with a splash, something unidentifiable and vaguely organic squelches from beneath me. Resting my wrists on my knees, I concentrate, sending my awareness down through my body into the earth below. Drawing up the energy I find, the deep, brown-green vitality, I swirl it up through my energy centres to my injured head. Within moments the pain and nausea lessen enough for me to look around and take stock.

I'm in a sewer, but not a modern one. There are no plastic ducts, no electronic tags for the water company to monitor blockages and open sluice gates. It appears much older, not Victorian, exactly, but stranger still. Frowning, I dig in my pocket for my mobile phone. The screen is cracked in three places, the whole casing waterlogged. Ever the optimist, I shake it a few times and press some of the buttons. Useless. My right hand flies to my side and I belatedly realise my gun is gone. Not that I ever use it. I hate guns, but the bosses insist I carry one and know how to use it.

_Bloody marvellous. No gun, no phone, no back-up. Alone in the dark in a... sewer?_

Looking around, things don't seem quite right. The ceiling soars, where I can see it, far higher than any sewer I've ever seen. Doing my job, you see more than your fair share of sewers, alleys and supposedly abandoned warehouses. Squinting into the gloom, I can see that a supporting strut is fashioned into an armoured knight holding a lichen-garlanded broadsword. Taking a deep, preparatory breath, I carefully stand up, scraping my wet hair out of eyes. The dizziness isn't as bad as I expected, but I still have to squeeze shut my eyes for a second or two.

Shivering as my sodden jeans cling to my thighs, I clench my stomach against the sudden resurgence of nausea. All I remember is walking home from the corner shop, newspaper and a loaf of bread under my arm. I felt a tug in the ether, an insistent pull, like silver fishhooks in my skin. Following the siren thrum, I rounded a corner into the small, manicured park and paused by an ash tree. Then nothing. I frown, trying to pluck some shred of memory from the grey fudge in my head. There's a huge round grate just visible past the bend in the tunnel, backlit with a fey, silvery luminance. The fine hair on the nape of my neck prickles, my solar plexus throbs – there is magic here. Old, earth magic that I can feel in my bones and teeth. At once I'm alert, summoning my personal magic, clothing my form with protection that shimmers about me before vanishing. Sloshing through the ankle-deep water, I approach, attempting to make as little noise as possible. Something punts through the murky water several feet ahead, and although I can't see it, I think of trilobites and angler fish.

A flash of movement level with my head startles me and I almost cry out. Bobbing on the air, a tiny, winged form chatters incomprehensibly. A pixie. He seems surprised I can see him, and rather agitated. Fluttering closer, he tugs on my hair and babbles musical nonsense into my ear. I motion for him to calm down; through gesture and expression communicating I don't understand his dialect. Darting in front of my nose, shining eyes huge in his thin green face, he bares sharp little teeth and continues to utter an endless stream of words. Impatiently, he repeats them over until I pick out the meaning.

"The Prince is come," I whisper aloud, slowly. "The Prince has returned from the Underworld."

The pixie gives a triumphant squeak, tumbling through the air, trailing emerald light that hangs before my face, glittering. I watch as the stylised blossoming tree motif disintegrates into fading motes. The Royal seal of Bethmora. Fear suddenly ignites in my belly, threatens to bring back the concussive sickness. Glancing at the pixie, for they can be deceitful creatures, I realise he is just as afraid, if not more so. There was only one Prince of Bethmora – Nuada Silverlance, general of the Golden Army, rebel son of King Balor. Killed three years ago by his twin sister, the gentle, self-sacrificing Princess Nuala.

I've worked, off and on, for the UK division of the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defence since I was eighteen, having appeared on their radar aged ten. It's a family thing. My mother and grandmother also worked for them. I come from a long line of hereditary witches who've always poked their noses into things that shouldn't concern them. An occupational foible, if you will. My nose for the paranormal has got me into endless trouble, but has also shown me such beauty and wonder that it makes me weep. It's amazing what is real and possible.

I was part of the team assembled in the wilds of Ireland, standing at the gates of Bethmora, watching Manners rant and chew antacids. The Americans, with their guns, gadgets and machismo are no use against the Gentry. Six druids and seven witches, including myself, worked for hours erecting wards to seal the gates, should Hellboy's team fail. We all knew it was laughably futile against the Golden Army, that nightmare of clockwork magic. One of the druids, an Irish gentleman in his seventies, suffered a heart attack that day. He passed into the Summerland afraid and in pain, Goddess bless and keep him. This was the legacy of the Crown Prince of Bethmora, who in his madness tried to reanimate what should never have been manufactured in the first instance.

I'm alone in the dark, with the very real possibility that the Elf Lord has somehow returned from beyond the Veil. Scared would be an understatement. Nuada's hatred of humanity is well documented. Not that anyone of my family line is entirely human, but I doubt His Majesty will pause long enough to pick up that particular detail. Suddenly, the pixie trills in alarm and streaks away down the tunnel like a firefly. He turns the corner and bumps the wall, then darkness closes about him like a fist. Completely alone, then. Shaking, but from more than just the cold, I begin to pick my way towards the grate again. Probably a really stupid idea, but I couldn't see any other way out. Shrinking back against the damp wall, hiding behind the knight's shin guard, I mutter a cloaking incantation. I can see my hand in front of my face, but it appears ghostly. I should be invisible to any observers. There is no guarantee, of course, that it will fool one of the noble Fey.

Slipping in through the grate, which is partially open, I emerge into a large, round room with a vaulted ceiling. I can't see how far up it goes, but small, leather-winged forms chitter and wheel overhead. The walls in here are stone, pitted with age and blue-green lichen. There's another grated door at the far side, which I step towards, eagerly. I could feel a slight breeze, carrying with it the scent of wet greenery. Hearing splashing in the water nearby, I fling myself flat to the wall behind a pillar, slimy lichen sucking at my cheek and the backs of my arms. I'm not usually so afraid of unidentifiable sounds in the dark and creeping shadows. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped sparrow as I peek cautiously out, bloodied fingers creeping around the crumbling pillar.

Metal upon stone, shrill and discordant, assaults my ears, resounding like a cracked bell. My eyes track the flash and arc of silver, blinding in the shafts of light that come from above. Droplets of water divide and tremble before the keen edge. One hits my face and I blink, dazedly, as it slides down my nose. I realise it's a lance blade, heavily engraved, set in a supple yew shaft. Jumping as the point clangs stone beneath the water, shrieking upwards to the left, I stifle a gasp. The lance bearer is stripped to the waist and stands with his back to me, honed muscle sliding beneath chalk white skin. I watch, mesmerised, as he works through an astoundingly complex series of manoeuvres. Milky hair spills down his back almost to his waist, the tips darkening to honey, floating on the air as he whirls, parrying imaginary adversaries. Scars crisscross his shoulders and torso, keloid knots that stand proud as his body snaps to the right, blade singing out as his feet leave the floor. Flipping over, he drops to one knee, head snapping up. His eyes are hawk amber above thin, ritual scarring across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Blackened lips peeling from gleaming white teeth, angular features set with utter concentration, he heaves a breath and his cold eyes narrow to slits. I'm put in mind of a predatory bird, no a serpent, or a mixture of both. I bite my lip, unconsciously, praying he does not see me. Gaze tracking to the gold disk on his leather gauntlet, I feel my heart still in my chest. The Royal Seal of Bethmora. Prince Nuada Silverlance cocks his head, nostrils flaring slightly, scenting the air. Holding myself extremely still, some base instinct locking my muscles, I entirely forget to breathe. Do not move. If he spots me, I'm dead. He rises to his feet, uncoiling slowly, each movement controlled, and spins his lance. The base striking stone, he leans a razor cheekbone against the shaft, long white fingers curling around the smooth wood.

I've read the reports, examined the digital copies of centuries old woodcuts and fragments of parchment, heard the oral folk legends. I was at the gates of Bethmora when they groaned wide to spit out Hellboy and his exhausted companions. I thought I knew about Nuada, Nuala and Balor, how the Prince went insane in his millennia exile. The irony is, I agree with him. Humanity has ruined the earth. We have stripped her bare and abused her with impunity. I knew he was terrifying, single-minded, a warrior beyond compare, who had easily beaten the Son of a Fallen One. But...

_Nobody told me he was beautiful!_

Quashing the thought, I remind myself I'm in serious danger. Nuada's tawny eyes slide in my direction, glacial, distant. He must not see me. I need to get out of here, to contact my superiors and inform them that the Prince of Bethmora has somehow found his way back to this world. I blink and drop my gaze for a fraction of a second, thinking hard. When I look back, he is gone. Panic grips me, the peculiar terror of a prey mammal that can't see the predator. Lifting my right hand, my lips curve to form the words of a defensive spell, fingertips tingling as I summon the power.

I'm choking, kicking ineffectually at nothing as I'm snatched off my feet. Five bone white fingers bite into my throat, strangling the incantation, sending purple stars racing before my eyes. Slamming me against the pillar, features dark with fury, the Elf Lord snarls something I don't understand. As darkness fills my vision, suffocation stealing consciousness, he abruptly releases me. Skull bouncing from the stone, gagging, wheezing, I freeze as the deadly point of his lance pricks the soft spot beneath my jaw. He glares down at me, yellow eyes lambent in the gloom, arrogance in the downturn of his black mouth.

"Who are you?" he demands, the dialect High Elvish, seldom heard by human ears. "Speak!"

His voice is a resonant tenor, the tone one accustomed to complete obedience in those he addresses. I swallow, the blade kissing my throat, and say nothing. My Elvish is rusty, mind skipping back to childhood lessons and dusty books sealed with padlocks and spells. Evidently, I don't answer quickly enough for the Prince's liking, as he clicks his tongue against his teeth with irritation. Looking me over, a pale brow quirks, upper lip curling with distaste.

"Human," he spits. "Hollow, worthless creature!"

The lance blade cuts into me, a brief, bright moment of pain, then warm wetness against my skin. I ignore it and mutter a response in Elvish, which I pray is complete enough for comprehension. Nuada frowns and leans in for a closer look, breath cool and strangely scentless against my face. His golden eyes glitter, alien and fathomless.

"Fey by-blow," he concludes, tracing a fingertip through my paltry wards, which flicker and disperse. "Witch child of human get."

The blade is removed from my neck. My fingers automatically go to the wound, which is shallow and non life threatening. Still, it bleeds copiously. I clamp my hand over it and will healing energy to the spot. It may have missed the artery, but if I lose any more blood, I will definitely pass out.

"I thought your kind were no more," the Prince states, looking at me dispassionately. "The Burning Times were your undoing."

It takes me a moment or two to realise he has switched to speaking English. Perfect, grammatically correct English, with a slight lilt. I try to force sufficient air through my bruised windpipe to speak, but the words come out as a wheeze. Leaning on the lance haft, Nuada studies me curiously, eyes hooded, head tilted like a falcon. He is not even breathing hard, the effort expanded to subdue me minimal.

"Speak!" he growls, thumping his lance butt.

"W-we survived," I croak. "Not many, but enough to carry on the work."

Again, he clicks his tongue, dismissively this time. "Not nearly enough, witchling! Look at the earth, how she is ruined!"

Shame flames in my cheeks and I drop my eyes to my feet, hidden in water. I know he is right. There are simply not enough of us left. I feel telling him we do what we can where we can, won't be a sufficient answer, so I don't reply.

"What is your name?"

I know better than to give the Gentry my name. My chin lifts defiantly, which raises a ghosted smile from the Prince. It's not a pleasant expression, more like a ritual display as he transfers his feared lance to his other hand. Water suddenly cascades in a thin stream from above, dripping through his hair, rolling from his bare shoulders. If he feels discomfort, it doesn't show. His amber eyes move to the blood stiffening my jacket, gelid on my hands.

"Do you know who I am?" he asks softly, going very still, mamba-like.

The fine hair on the back of my neck stands on end. If I lie, he may know. If I tell the truth, he will doubtless kill me. Nuada chuckles quietly, the sound streaking chills across my skin. I can see how his name came to be revered and reviled through the ages, a whispered tale around campfires. Be good, or the Prince will come for you!

"Your heartbeat betrays you," he says mildly, tapping his pointed ear. "You know who I am. Say my name."

The last utterance is a command, filled with steel. Oh, the power of names with the Fey. Ice filling my stomach, I straighten, taking my hand away from my wounded throat. It has stopped bleeding and the edges have already knitted. Gathering my dignity, I dare to look him in the eye and clear my throat. I have to look up several inches as he is well over six feet tall.

"Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor of Bethmora."

"_Prince_ Nuada," he corrects haughtily, clearly annoyed.

I shake my head, hardly believing my own stupidity as I shot back, "You're no Prince of mine. I didn't swear any oath to you. Mine is to the Goddess."

Nuada's chin tucks in, eyes narrowing with outrage. Expression dark with impending violence, he looms over me. This is it. I'm going to die down here in this sewer because I can't keep my mouth shut. Suddenly, to my astonishment, he gives a brief bark of laughter and slaps his open palm against the pillar by my right ear.

"Brave little witch," he comments dryly. "But truthful. The Fey ancestry must outweigh the human taint in you, for all that you bleed red."

I'm starting to feel a little detached from reality. Countless questions jostle in my head, least of all, how is it even possible he is here? According to Abe Sapien, Nuada had crystallized into ivory stone and broken in two like his heart. He didn't seem deranged. Toweringly arrogant in his belief in his own superiority, like many Gentry, frightening, filled with anger, but mad? He watches the thoughts slip across my face, head cocked, and I start to shiver again.

"Let me see," he breathes, tracing the lance blade down the pillar by my left ear. "These cogs that turn inside your head."

My cheek burns from the sudden contact of his palm, hard fingertips digging into my temple and beneath my jaw, thumb crushing my lower lip into my teeth. I taste blood and the salt from his skin, my gasped protest ignored. The Prince's mind plunges through my mental defences like a hunting dog after a rabbit. He will know everything I don't want him to. I think I scream and hit out at him, clawing at his unmovable arm. Images carousel behind my eyes; my family, my coven and work colleagues. He delves deeper and it _hurts_ because I can and will resist him.

'_Stop! Stoppit! It hurts! IT HURTS!' _ I wail inside my mind.

Desperately, I call to any guardian spirits of the place, a silent plea that for long seconds I think is unanswered. Then the power jettisons through me, so much I will get static shocks from any manmade material I touch for weeks after. I hear crackling like a lightning strike and my ears pop, as if I have suddenly risen to a great height. I smell violets. Catapulted back by the explosive release, Nuada collides with the wall with such force, cracks appear in the stone. Sliding down into the brackish water, his chin drops to his chest and he groans, a trickle of copper-coloured blood at his temple. A flurry of leather wings obscures my eyes as the resident bats panic, the waters eddying about my feet.

Spine flush with the pillar, panting, trembling from the residual energy, I project my thanks and shake a little blood from my hands by way of offering. The Prince appears unconscious, slumped over, his lance lost somewhere in the turbulent water. I should leave, quickly, while I still can. Spinning on my heel, I dart for the exit.

"NUALA!!"

The cry is so piteous, so hoarse and filled with agony, that it stops me in my tracks. Looking back over my shoulder, I see him lever himself up onto his palms, hair trailing into the water. Shaking violently, he lifts his head, opens his black mouth and howls, a wordless expression of grief. Then, Nuada Silverlance, Crown Prince of Bethmora, Scourge of Humanity, draws his knees to his chest and starts to weep like a lost child. I don't know what to do – I'm torn between running for my life and intervening. It's part of my Rede to tend to the sick, the distressed and the spiritually lost. He seems to be all three and then some. I make my decision, which I hope I will live to not regret. Stupid girl.

Warily, I approach and kneel next to him. He doesn't move, proud face pressed to his kneecaps, rocking slightly. Powerful shoulders heaving with the force of his sobs, he starts violently when I hesitantly lay my hand on his bicep.

"She's gone," I murmur softly, keeping my voice low and soothing. "Gone to the Summerland."

He stares at me, eyes cinnamon with pain. "I did this," he whispers brokenly. "My arrogance, my heedless pride killed her. She took her dagger, and she..."

Trailing off, bewildered, hurting, he presses a hand to his sternum, finding a healed knife scar. He looks to me, helplessly, but I don't have any answers for him. His skin is hot beneath my palm, almost feverish. I have no idea if this is normal for an elf and wonder if he's ill. Once thing, however, is clear – he has no more clue why he's here than I do. His lips twist, face lifting to the unseen skies.

"Father," he groans disconsolately. Alert, feral amber, his gaze snaps to me. "The Golden Army...?"

"Dismantled," I manage to say, trying to keep the unease from my tone. "The Crown was destroyed."

Nuada sneers, snarls, left hand questing through the water for his lance, which is thankfully, out of reach. All at once, his features crumple and he hangs his head low.

"I am being punished," he mutters. "Thrust back amongst _humans_ for murdering my father and causing my sister to take her own life. Cerridwen has a cruel sense of humour, it seems."

Gathering my courage, I reach out and tip his chin, disregarding the warning flash of his eyes. It seems the Prince doesn't like to be touched. Moistening my dry lips, I silently ask the Goddess for the right words. Please let them be right. I can't afford for them not to be right.

"Maybe, this isn't punishment. Maybe this is Her way of giving you a second chance? Too much has been destroyed already, by everyone, Fey and human. What if this is a chance for something new to grow?"

Nuada gazes at me for so long I fight the urge to look away, feeling unbearably young and stupid beneath the weight of his gaze. How old is he? How many millennia has he seen? How long was he exiled from his father's court? A tear wells in the corner of his right eye and slips down his nose. My knees ache, my throat stings, I am soaked through and so cold I can't feel my fingers or toes, but I ignore it all. I realise later he has hold of my hand, clutching it to his bicep.

"What if, indeed," he concedes, at length.

Clearing his throat, he blinks and wipes at his eyes with his pallid forearm. Composure restored, he fixes me with those unnerving eyes.

"What is your name, witchling?" he enquires. "I swear by my lance, I will not use it against you."

Reassured, for the word of a noble Fey is their bond, I answer, "Aisling. Aisling Grey."

Nuada Silverlance smiles, for the first time genuine warmth in the expression. " Aisling. A vision or dream. How very apt."

I realise he is chilled, goose pimples on his arms and torso. If he were human, I'd say he was going into shock. But he's not human and I have no point of reference for indicators of his health. Moving aside his hair, I examine the cut on his forehead. It looks deep. I think I see a glint of bone beneath. He allows the ministration without protest, flinching only when I breathe a healing spell into the wound.

"How long have I slept?" he demands, suddenly.

I pause, an arm slipped around him, attempting to coax him out of the freezing water. "Three years."

He rises sinuously to his feet, easily carrying me with him. Setting me back down, gently, he bends to retrieve his lance. The blade glistens, cold and lethal.

"Are you to be my guide, in this new life?"

Am I? I realise I am, with the absolute certainty that only comes when the Goddess reaches out and raps her knuckles on your head. It doesn't mean I'm not scared I'll cock it all up, nor does it mean I know what to do. All it means is, I have been chosen, and there's nothing I can do about it. I nod once and hold out my hand. Nuada takes it, white fingers closing about my pink.

"Your compatriots in the BPRD may have something to say," he observes, slyly, amused.

I'm speechless, horrified, realising he has gleaned that from my mind when he broke through my defences. The Prince notes my reaction and smiles like a leopard, lifting my hand to his mouth and brushing his lips across my knuckles. I'm in an awful lot of trouble, whichever way this pans out.


	2. Nin Grey & The White Owl

The kettle whistles cheerily on the hob as I spoon herbs into a stainless steel tea ball. Dropping it into my Grandmother's old teapot, I retrieve the boiled kettle and fill it halfway. I have an electric kettle, used for everyday tea and coffee, but if it's herbs, if it's for healing, I use Nin Grey's willow patterned pot and clunky great kettle. Gripping the cool marble worktop to stop my hands shaking, I take a deep breath and centre myself.

_You are entirely out of your mind, _I inform myself sternly, watching aromatic steam curl from the spout of the teapot. _Goddess, what do I do?!_

When no divine answers are forthcoming, I snatch up the cordless phone from by the toaster and press speed dial three for the next best thing. It rings six times before a cheerful, maternal voice answers, worn thin with age and bronchial asthma.

"Hello pet, I had a feeling you'd ring. What's troubling you?"

Nin Grey is Dublin Irish, grey-eyed and flame-haired, although the red is from henna these days. If you placed photos side by side of a young Nin and I, you'd swear we were sisters. I have her grey eyes, and my Mum's wild black hair. I was nearly named Brenna on account of my hair. I take a deep breath that quavers. Nin coughs and I hear her asthma inhaler hiss.

"Nin," I begin. "I'm in it up to my neck."

Unconsciously, I lapse into Gaelic and tell her the tale from the beginning. Feeling the pull, tracing the thread through the ether, the impossibility of Nuada's presence, his terrifying mood swings. Nin listens to it all, occasionally asking questions, but mostly just listening intently.

"Ah, wee girl, you always did have a nose for trouble," she comments, affectionately, as if I was five again and had skinned my knee.

"Nin!" I protest, voice rising. "I've got the Crown Prince of Bethmora prowling around the spare room!"

A pause, during which I can hear her rattling a peppermint against her teeth. Eighty five and she's still got all her own teeth.

"Have you aired the bed?" she asks reasonably.

I think I'm going to explode. I lean on the counter top, kneading the bridge of my nose, and then fish the tea ball from the pot before pouring a cup. Just as I open my mouth to retort, she starts to speak.

"Listen and listen well, dear one," she instructs, enviably calm. "I don't know of anything in this world that can resurrect Gentry gone to stone, but I was visited by a white owl last night. She told me that the scales were tipped by the Royal twins death and that imbalance must be redressed." Nin sighs and I can hear her chest rattling. "You know as well as I that nature is cruel as well as wonderful, and that She abhors a vacuum. The time of the Fey wasn't due to end, but when Nuala stabbed her pretty wee heart, she opened a crack in the world that they've been slipping into and things have been scurrying out of. The BPRD have had a busy few years because of it. There's been tsunami, earthquakes, hurricanes, barren cattle, mass suicides... all because a door opened that wasn't supposed to. The Prince can put it right, but only if he wants to. And that, my pet, is where you come in. He needs to be healed."

I look at the cooling tea and wonder, distractedly, if the fate of the world can be read in the wet leaves. Nin allows me a few seconds to let it all sink in. I hear her unwrap another sweet.

"No pressure then," I joke, faintly. I wonder if I have any brandy left.

"We're people with a foot in both worlds – human and Fey. The line reverts to its origins every thirteen generations. That will help you bridge the void with Nuada."

I'm generation thirteen. I've known it since I was old enough to count. Magic has always come easily to me, too easily sometimes. My connection with the earth is so strong, that if I spend too much time in the city, I get listless and crotchety.

"Nin," I whisper, holding the phone close to my mouth. Nuada is in the guest room upstairs and shouldn't be able to hear me, but I lower my voice anyway. "I'm bloody scared. His Royal Highness isn't playing with a full deck. What if he decides to go on a rampage? There's not snowball in hell's chance I can stop him. If I tell the BPRD, they'll lock him in maximum security containment till doomsday."

Nin Grey is quiet. We both know this isn't something where the outcome is certain. We both know I'll have to tread very carefully. I know it's something I just have to do, whether I like it or not.

"You'll find a way, pet," she assures me. "I'm just on the end of the phone. Now, take him his tea and let an old lady get back to her Sudoku."

"I love you, Nin," I say, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

She tells me she loves me too, with a catch in her voice, and hangs up. Numbly, I pick up the oversize blue mug, patter across the quarry-tiled kitchen floor and push open the door to the hallway. My house is Georgian, dating back to the eighteen hundreds, three storeys of hand-me-down antique furniture, books and occult paraphernalia. Trinketry and trash, as my rather sniffy great Auntie Mabs calls it.

Nuada is sat in the dark on the stairs, chin in his hand, peering through the spindles. He has soaked in the bath and changed into a clean black t-shirt and wash-faded denims, both relics of boyfriends past. His feet are bare and he has tied back his hair with an old blue velvet ribbon I recognise as coming from the button box in my study. So the Prince likes to poke around in drawers. He is still wearing his gauntlets and his lance rests across his knees like a favoured pet. Mysteriously, it has somehow retracted to about a foot in length, scant inches of wood between the blade and the engraved haft.

Accepting the offered cup without comment, he stares at the oak Ogham shield above the hall door lintel. It's a carved house protection, an invocation to the Goddess Brigid. The Prince sniffs the cup contents suspiciously, nose wrinkling. Apparently satisfied I'm not trying to poison him, he sips the hot brew.

"Can you read that?" he asks, gesturing with the steaming mug.

Sensing I'm being tested, I push my hair behind my ear and turn to the shield. "Hail to thee, Lady of the Sacred Flame, daughter of the mighty Dagda, whose eyes see all. Cast your fiery arrows against those who would disturb the peace of my home and my heart."

He snorts quietly and drinks more tea. "Fortunate are those who have peace to disturb."

Expression darkening, his gaze becomes distant, troubled. The Prince is brooding, but at least he is calm and reasonable. For a man who's been dead, turned to stone and shattered to pieces for three years, he looks so _alive_. A pulse beats steadily in his white neck, he exudes vitality and strength. Elbows resting on his thighs, his arms and shoulders are muscular from countless hours practising with his lance. He looks like what he is; a battle-hardened soldier, scarred, self-contained, deadly. His hair shines, streaked sodium orange by the streetlight filtering in from outside. I look at his hands, with their pewter nails, now clean of the grime caught beneath them. Goddess help me, he's beautiful. I'm no impressionable teenager, far from it. I've seen and done too much to have my head turned by any preternatural bad boy, but I can't help myself, he fascinates me. Sensing my scrutiny, Nuada turns his amber eyes toward me.

"Why do you stare at me?"

I shrug, increasingly my mental shielding. "I've never seen a full blood elf before," I answer, truthfully. "Besides, your Highness, you're looking remarkably spry for a dead man, even if that t-shirt is a size too small."

On his feet, aloof and irritated, his shoulders square threateningly. "You mock me! Is this the treatment I should expect? Will you telephone the red demon now?"

Glaring back at him, I fold my arms, uncowed. Nobody shouts at me in my own home, not colleagues, not family, not even Fey Royalty. "One, I'm not _mocking_. Two, you are a guest in my house and _will_ treat me with the appropriate respect. _Three_, if I had any bloody intention of ringing the BPRD, you'd already be shackled and halfway to fucking Outer Mongolia by now!"

The cut crystal vase on the hall window ledge emits a low, oboe note and I realise I have roared. That's a fiery Celtic temper for you. I have my Dad to thank for that particular character trait, and my extensive vocabulary of invective. Pale brows rising to his hairline, Nuada does a double take, mouth falling open. The only thing that looks vaguely like a weapon in the hall is my rather dilapidated umbrella. I should think lance trumps broken umbrella. Unexpectedly, he gives a small, formal bow, touching a hand to his chest.

"Forgive my rudeness," he declares, a quarter smile tugging his mouth. "I have been too long removed from _polite_ company."

Flustered, I nod and hmph. He seems amused by a woman swearing. Again, the Prince has displayed how volatile he is. One moment he is drinking tea, the next flying into a temper, the moment after that, subdued by a woman raising her voice to him. Perhaps it was me appealing to the ancient laws of hospitality? Who knows. He looks at me, expression unreadable, tea mug in one hand, lance in the other. I see the centuries behind his eyes and I'm afraid it's simply time that is the cause. I'm afraid I'm too spiritually young for this, that I'll misjudge something and end up causing a catastrophe. I'm afraid of the quickening his presence causes in my blood, my womb, my soul. I'm worried that he'll see it and use it against me. I'm more worried he'll decide I am a hollow creature after all and take out my throat with his lance. I fear that he'll decide not to seal up the rip between worlds, if he is even aware it exists. Suddenly, the BPRD seem the least of the problems.

"I am lost," he says abruptly, the words bursting out of him. "A lost Prince, from a fallen kingdom."

He gestures, reaching for understanding that eludes him, regarding me with evident confusion. Setting down the cup, he moves toward me. Instinctively, I take a step back.

"Why are you helping me?" he muses, more to himself than me. "You know my name; your people know my history." He taps his temple, indicating the memories he stole from my head. "You were _there_ when I tried to wake the Golden Army. I would have destroyed humanity had I succeeded. I am the monster your children should fear. _You_ should fear me far more than you do, Aisling."

Fingers snaking around my upper arms with enough force to make me wince, he almost lifts me off my feet as he demands, "Why?"

Balanced on the balls of my feet, heart tripping, I reach out and place my right palm against his chest. I can feel the slow, steady pulse of his heart beneath the old cotton t-shirt. He looks down at my hand, like the contact shocks him, then back to my face.

"Because you're lost," I reply, relieved that my voice is steady. "Because what you've done is terrible, but what you can do _now_ will go a long way to setting the balance right."

With that, I gently disengage his grip from my arms, thud down onto the third from bottom stair and pat the space next to me. As the Prince sits down, fluidly, expectantly, I take a deep breath and tell him about Nin Grey and the white owl.


	3. Patterns

_"From Findias was brought the Sword of Nuada;  
no man would escape from it when it was drawn from its scabbard.  
There was no resisting it."_

_The Book of Lecan_

So much clamours inside my head; the wars, the swift death of men, the slow death of Sons of the Earth and the decimation of the earth Herself. The horror and the beauty of it all. I hear the rattle and groan of the infernal machinery of the Golden Army. The hiss of pistons and unstoppable, perpetually turning cogs. Now, it seems, they are silenced forever, the Crown melted to nothing by the female pyrokinetic. I do not recall that, my broken soul had fled before my dear sister's sharp dagger. Sweet, gentle Nuala, a lady of herbal lore and healing, who had a hidden core of steel. Princess of the white shoulders who was without compare. She was my equal and my opposite. We held each other in balance with the opposing forces of our nature, each joy or pain felt keenly by the other. Father did ever try to shield her heart from mine, and in later centuries, she did the same.

She taught me when we were both very young that not all that is worth learning can be found at a sword point. I wish I had taken more heed of her words. Then, perhaps, many things would not have happened. I have lived my life by the point of my lance, the strength of my will, the force of my intellect. No general or king was ever so feared as I. I was so sure of the truth of my convictions I placed myself in exile. I have wandered the world since before the druid Taliesin sang in Arthur's court. Somewhere, the path turned out of true and I fell. I do not know where. The wickedest lies are the ones we tell ourselves, and are so often spun from the truths we hold dearest.

I murdered my father. I took my twin swords, which once drawn must taste blood before they can be sheathed, and I cut down his trusted guard. I felt nothing but grim determination. I would do what had to be done, what they were all too weak to do. Father sat on his throne and watched me, saw his death in my eyes, and welcomed it. He was old and weary of this world. His crown and its torments weighed heavily upon him. As I plunged my sword into his tired heart, I fancy he thanked me. That does not make my transgression any the lesser. Nuala watched me, aghast, her sorrow crashing over me like a tidal wave. For the first time in our long lives, my sister fled from my presence in fear and disgust. Did I see my beloved sister in the Summerland? Did I reconcile with my stern father? I do not remember. Did I even walk the shining path to the Summerland? Or was I cast into Abbadon?

All I do remember is waking in the sewer in the first port of Alba when you cross the sea from Eire. No ordinary sewer, but the juncture where the Fey world meets this. I awoke howling, crazed from my rebirth. I do not know how long I crawled in the mud and filth, but in time my wits returned. My lance I found in the stone knight's fist. It soothed me to take it up again, to hear its song in my mind, to feel the reassuring weight and balance in my hands. I was training when the witchling crept in, stinking of fear, blood and magic. The pixie had told me she had fallen and hit her head, during which time he had stolen her gun. Pixie led, indeed. Had her cloaking spell hidden her sufficiently, I would still have heard her feet in the water, seen her breath in the chilled air.

Blood draws blood, and she had followed the ripple my return surely made in the ether. I almost killed her on sight, convinced she was a hollow being. Some spark, some remnant of memory stopped me. Fey gold shimmered in her, distilled, diluted by generations, but still vibrant. So painfully young, so naive and ignorant. Yet her connection with the earth was strong – she called nature spirits to her aid and they responded with such vigour I was injured! Her people, are, after all the Wild Guardians, tasked with teaching the humans to respect the earth, and trying to repair the damage where their lessons had failed. I did not know any remained, after the treacherous Christ followers put them to sword and flame during the Burning Times. Perhaps the spirits of the place did not recognise me. That will not happen again.

Aisling Grey has every reason to hate me. I am the bone-white monster whom death follows. I am the silver-armed God of Eire myth who rose to scour the parasitic humans from the world. She was present at the Gates of Bethmora when I failed to rouse the Golden Army. Anung Un Rama and his warriors are her comrades in arms. And yet, she does not. Her heart was moved with pity for a fallen Prince and she tended the same injuries her magic had inflicted. She intends, also, to salve the wounds of time and madness. I am of half a mind to allow it, to allow this generous creature to comfort me and return me to the path Cerridwen has set out. Her voice and the thrum of her heart both soothe and aggravate me. She speaks to me as no other has dared save my sister, exhibits an intoxicating mixture of fear and concern for my welfare. I cannot remember when last somebody cared. There is much I cannot remember. My darker half wants to sink into the blackness, to return to the hatred and killing. I am the Crown Prince of Bethmora, nay, the King now my father is dead! Am I insane? No man in his right mind would do the things I have done. The ferocity of my temper, which although always unpredictable, never extended to the extermination of an entire species. Who am I to attempt to destroy what the Goddess created? A vain, arrogant son!

Now, I sit on her staircase in the warm darkness, an empty cup in my hand. She has told me of her grandmother and the visit from the white owl. I do not know where this rift between worlds is, or even if I care enough to seek it. At this moment, I do not. I am content to sit and watch the patterns the streetlight makes upon the polished wood as it filters through the stained glass beside the door. She sits next to me, dark crescents of exhaustion below her slate eyes, a scabbed bruise above the left. Despite herself, her head begins to nod, shoulders slumped. I consider poking her and shouting boo, but as a noble, such behaviour is beneath me. Her breathing alters and I realise she has fallen asleep, knees pressed tightly together, hands folded neatly in her lap.

She has resisted sleep, thinking perhaps, that I may slit her throat with her own boline. In truth, it would matter little if she were asleep or awake, should I decide to snuff out her life. But no, she is my hostess, and I a guest in her house. I am many things, but I am not ill-mannered. She murmurs and shifts uncomfortably, cheek pressed to a spindle. As she does, her thigh touches mine and I feel the heat radiating from her flesh. She has bathed, changed into clean clothing and smells of rose and geranium. Though no stranger to women, those of my father's court and noble birth avoided me as my nature grew darker. Those that did not were not worthy of my attention, or had political ends in mind. For a moment I enjoy the sensation, the scent, allow myself to appreciate her narrow waist, full hips and ink black hair. My exile has been long, and solitary. Suddenly, I am furious with myself. She is sullied by her human ancestry – her skin is pink, her eyes are the colour of stone, her ears round. Unworthy. As quickly as it came, my anger subsides and I become still, thoughtful. It is so quiet now, in my mind. I can no longer hear nor feel the tiniest whisper of Nuala, and this I realise, is the cause of much of my distress. Yet I still hear the song of the Golden Army, or maybe it is merely the sound of my own damaged heart. I do not have the answers, or even the right questions. So I sit on the staircase, watching the patterns, and wait for the dawn.


	4. On A Spring Morning

1 Week Later

It's 6 am. I wander into the kitchen in my slippers, blinking in the buttery dawn light. Flicking on the kettle, I dump two spoonfuls of instant coffee into an outsize mug and slap four crumpets into the toaster. I smile as I see a robin swinging from the birdfeeder above the window, bright, black eyes alert. My back garden is a long, rectangular expanse, hidden from prying eyes by a high, whitewashed wall. I have a mature copper beech in the far left corner, sufficient distance from the house that its roots cause no problems. There is also a hawthorn, just coming into bud, a holly, still dressed with crimson berries and knotted old apple tree. The lawn is a bit long, but I like it that way – an over-manicured garden doesn't encourage wildlife. Shuffling past the wood-paned window, I do a double take and step back to the glass, bug-eyed.

The Prince vaults across the lawn in a white-grey blur, lance blade flashing in the spring air as it sings out. He tumbles across the dewed grass, turning his shoulder into the roll, up, over and back onto his feet. Making my coffee, adding sugar and milk, I settle against the Belfast sink, still full with last night's crockery, to watch the show. Nuada is shirtless and bare foot, snapping the shaft flush to his spine, point down, as he stalks in a wide circle. Intensely focussed, he isn't aware he has an audience as he drops into a crouch and explodes into another flurry of balletic, lethal movement. I'm very grateful for my garden walls, or my neighbours would have a great deal to gossip about. Mrs Blair next door but one would have a stroke if she caught sight of a half naked elf pulling a Bruce Lee on the lawn. The thought tickles me and I chuckle to myself as the toaster pops.

Buttering the crumpets, I sober, half reaching for the jam pot. The Prince hasn't said very much of consequence to me, and since he discovered the size of the garden, has spent a lot of time outdoors. He's trained ferociously, meditated daily under the hawthorn, held long conversations in Elvish with the resident tree spirit and, well, he's _moped_ extensively. But, he's shown no inclination to leave and go on a killing spree, so I'm grateful for small mercies. Since his arrival, everything in the garden has gone wild, literally. All the plants have put on an unseasonal growth spurt, like spring has sprung just that little bit more. Although I always have a wide variety of birdlife due to the feeders scattered about, there've been some unusual visitors. A peregrine falcon has terrorised the starlings for three days now, leaving feathers from her kills scattered across the grass.

I woke last night to the sound of three owls, that aren't my resident scruffy little tawny. I rushed to the window, wondering if it was the white owl Nin Grey saw, but reasoned if I was having a divine visitation, there'd be no room for speculation. Despite the fact His Royal Brooding-ness is whirling about like some sort of demented dervish, the birds are going about their morning business, unruffled. A small, furry head collides with my ankle. I look down to see Pyewacket and Pangor Ban, my over-indulged British blue cats. Yes, I am that stereotype. A witch with cats. Laugh, and I'll twitch my nose at you. Pye curls her lavender grey tail into a question mark, while Pan purrs, blinks her golden eyes to say hello and butts me again.

"You've been fed already, girls. Go whore it up with His Majesty."

The cats adore Nuada, which is strange in itself for two snooty ladies who're extremely selective about whose laps they deign to sit in. They practically collapse at his feet, showing their bellies, purring and displaying like he's walking catnip. He maintains it's submissive behaviour. Chirruping, the terrible two slip through the catflap into the garden, scattering alarmed sparrows in their wake. Hopping up the three steps to the lawn, noting that the cellar windows need cleaning, I follow them, the cool dew soaking through my slippers. Stopping at a safe distance, I wait for the Prince to notice me and stop leaping about. Within thirty seconds, he has retracted his lance, planted both feet on the ground, and inclines his head in greeting.

"The kettle's just boiled, if you want a brew," I inform him.

He's just about got used to the fact I don't bow and scrape. It's not in my nature. He can make his own bloody tea, or drink tap water. Declining with a small shake of his head, he indicates a jug of water set under the hawthorn. Tap water it is, then. Noting my black suit and occupied gun holster, he shoulders on his shirt and frowns.

"You are armed," he observes. "And with more than your magic."

"I had a little chat with our pixie friend. He kindly gave me back my gun when I let slip I had you as a house guest."

Nuada's amber eyes narrow. I don't think he appreciates the joke. His shirt is open, the black material creating a stark contrast with his pallid skin. For a moment, I'm totally distracted by the visual. Pyewacket breaks the spell by sashaying up to him and meowing for attention. He absently bends to pet her head, then lifts his reproachful gaze.

"You have something you wish to discuss, Aisling?"

I nod, "Yeah, I've gotta go back to work today."

The Prince stiffens distrustfully, grip tightening on his lance. "To the BPRD?"

I raise my hands disarmingly. "Don't have kittens, Nuada. They think I've been sick with 'flu. If I don't show up indefinitely, my boss will get suspicious and send agents looking for me. I'll stop getting paid and the bank will repossess the house."

Somewhat mollified, he grunts, but looks far from happy. I know he's not scared; he's too old, too steeped in blood and warfare for an emotion as petty as fear. He associates the BPRD with Hellboy and Abe Sapien. Hellboy stole his chance to reanimate the Golden Army, but Abe, well, our erudite Fishstick did much worse and stole his sister's heart. I wonder if any other would-be suitors over the ages came to a sticky end due to his overprotective jealousy. It's in the job description of brothers to bristle at anyone their sisters bring home, but I doubt Nuada would consider anyone worthy of his revered twin. Not that he knows I know any of this. I don't think he realises that when he forced his way into my memories, the door swung two ways.

"You lied," he observes.

"Yes, doesn't everyone?" I retaliate, shrugging. "The world thinks you're dead, and I see no reason to change that. The BPRD would charge in here to take you out, probably levelling two streets in the process."

Nuada fondles his lance, expression glacial. "They could _try_ to 'take me out'."

I sigh and point to the kitchen. "Ok, they could try. But they won't, 'cos they don't know you've resurfaced. Look, there's fresh crumpets on the table, plenty in the fridge, and don't feed the cats, no matter how much they pester." I begin walking back towards the house. "I've gotta be out the door in ten minutes or I'll be late."

Please, Goddess, don't let him wander off or get any daft ideas in his head while I'm at work. I've elf-sat for a whole week and I look like shit warmed over a lighter flame due to how little sleep I've had, which although it supports the 'flu cover story, isn't helpful long term. Oh, and a clue what to do about the whole rift between worlds issue would be wonderful, thanks. I pause at the steps and look back at him.

"I won't betray you, Nuada. I said I would guide you, I gave you my word."

The look on his face communicates exactly how binding he thinks any human's (or mostly-human's) word is. He glides across the lawn and holds out his open palm.

"Give me your hand," he instructs coolly. Seeing the change in my face, he adds, "I will not harm you, I merely wish to gauge your truthfulness."

Reluctantly, I do so, remembering his previous telepathic violation. This time, however, his mental touch is not gentle, exactly, but deliberate and non-threatening. His awareness flows through mine like quicksilver, a peculiar intimacy. Apparently satisfied I'm telling the truth, he lets my hands drop and nods. Straightening my suit jacket, I return to the house to find my shoes and train ticket. As I turn the key in the front door, instructing the house guardians to alert me if he ventures out, I experience a guilty thrill. The Prince is attracted to me, although he's suppressing it like mad. Common sense dictates it's potentially dangerous to my wellbeing, that and the fact I'm probably the first woman he's interacted with on any meaningful level in goodness knows how long. Men can get confused so easily by a set of boobs and kindness. Resolving to tread more carefully, even though I'm already on permanent eggshells, I skip down the steps onto the street and away to the BPRD.


	5. Captain Nemo

9 Days Later

The touch screen display blurs and I squint, pinching the bridge of my nose to relieve the eyestrain. I've spent four hours plotting supernatural incidents across the UK, correlating that data with ostensibly natural occurrences and have just extended the algorithm to the entire globe. Running the programme will take several hours. I stretch, wiggle the kinks from my spine and reach for my eighth cup of tea. Setting down the cup, I slip on protective cotton gloves and turn to the six ancient books on the desk in front of me. I'm researching the Bethmora Clan, trying to glean a vaguely accurate history from the tangled skein of folklore. It seems that the Prince wasn't always the bogey man; he had a duel aspect as protector of the forests and early tribal people of Eire.

"Valiant Nuada of the silver lance, who subdued the Firbolg of blood, for love of the Tribe, for pains of Danu's children, hold thy shield over us, protect us all," I read aloud, carefully smoothing the yellowed parchment.

Tracing a finger over the Royal Seal, a variant of the war motif on the chests containing hungry tooth fairies delivered to Blackwood's Auction House, I continue reading. I try not to think about them, about the number of innocent people they ate alive. Although I agree with Nuada over the shopping malls, parking lots and greed, how the endless progression of humanity has swallowed his green fields and forests and forced his people into the gutter, I can't reconcile this ideal with wholesale slaughter. I've said nothing, but I know he's slipped out at least twice in the last week. The first time, I had a major panic attack, flew upstairs to my ritual room and performed the quickest location spell known to man. I'd rescued a few strands of his hair I found the cats playing with, which provided an excellent focus for my magic.

To my relief, I found the Prince at the docks, sat on a bollard, watching the tide come in. He was glamoured, so any observers wouldn't have seen him, or would have been vaguely aware of a handsome, longhaired young man, nothing more. The second time, he had disappeared in the middle of the night, returning at dawn with fresh clothing more suited to his tastes. I found him in the kitchen with Pan on his knee, wearing a midnight black kirtle over loose, oriental-design pants, bound at the waist with a scarlet sash. The butt of his lance peeped over his left shoulder, secured at his back by a leather clip harness. I also found a mysterious tea blend in a cork-stoppered jar, pointedly placed by Nin Grey's teapot, which turned out to be delicious.

I tap my trouser pocket, feeling the small, material bag containing his hair and a few crystals. If needs be, I can do much more with it than simply track him. It was daft of me to think he'd be content being used as a cat toy or pogo-ing about the garden chatting to tree spirits ad infinitum. I'm not his jailer, nor am I in any position to stop him if he goes AWOL with intent. The fact he came back at all has reassured me somewhat.

"Don't go bandit, _ceanndána prionsa_," I mutter to myself. "Or I'll be forced to Bind you." _If I even can... his hair and some iron should do the trick, I hope._

The door sighs open at my back, pneumatically powered, sensor activated. Thinking it's my colleague, Christopher Fitzpatrick, a genteel fifty-something scholar of the occult, come looking for his books, I call over my shoulder.

"Won't be long, Chris."

"I think you may have mistaken me for somebody with a little more hair," an amused, slightly camp voice observes dryly.

My mouth falls open with horror and I reflexively shutter my mind water tight. Plastering on a friendly smile, I turn to face Abraham Sapien, BPRD agent, merman and empath extraordinaire. Abe's huge black eyes shine with pleasure at seeing me, nictitating membrane pulsing behind his goggles. Slight and elegant, the overhead light gleaming from his turquoise skin, he steps forward.

"Ash," he greets warmly. "It's been too long! Tell me, how is your grandmother?"

Twisting away from the hug, my mind races. I didn't know he was coming to England. If he touches me, at worst he'll know about Nuada, at best he'll sense I've totally shut him out and get suspicious. I've known Abe since I was eighteen. He knew my Mum and still rings Nin Grey every Yule. Empty hands outstretched, transparent membranes between the tapering fingers, he looks confused and hurt. Hugs aren't easily come by when you look like something that escaped from an aquarium.

"Sorry, Abe," I gabble. "I've had the 'flu, nasty variant. Can't be too careful."

A ruckle appears in his smooth brow. "But, Ash, I don't catch..." He breaks off, shakes his head and his respirator bubbles.

I feel dreadful, my heart aches. I've always, always greeted sweet, sensitive Abe with the biggest, most enthusiastic hugs. A memory flashes; leaping at him, aged twenty one and drunk as a skunk at the party the BPRD threw for my graduation with first class honours in Occult Studies, to deliver such an enthusiastic hug, we both fell over. He still teases me about that, and the fact I threw up in the Director's office waste bin, over a decade later. I've only seen him once in the three years since Nuala died and he took an extended sabbatical from the BPRD. I clear my throat, awkwardly, and press on.

"Nin's in fine fettle, ta. Her chest isn't so great these days, though. She's off terrorising some initiates in the wilds at the moment," I chirp. He still looks deflated, so I add, sincerely, "It's really good to see you, Cap'n."

Captain Nemo, my nickname for him, after the commander of the Nautilus. He sat at my bedside and read me '20,000 Leagues Under The Sea' when I was hospitalised after Mum died, to hide the beep of monitors and stop me drowning in grief. It was three days after my graduation party when it happened, when she was killed, when I was almost killed too. Abe had been halfway to a BPRD private flight back to the USA when some empathic instinct made him order the chauffeur turn the car around. He stayed for two weeks, sanctioned by Professor Broom. Unsuited to fully forming a smile, Abe's lipless mouth lifts at the corners in pleasure.

"Likewise," he pauses and cocks his head, fingers curling in enquiry. "Is everything alright, Aisling?"

Trying to be casual, I gather the books, slipping the one with the Royal Seal on at the bottom of the pile so he won't see it. He's worried now, 'cos as far as he's concerned, a non-hugging, skittish Aisling isn't normal.

"Yeah," I breathe out the word, shrug and tuck my hair behind my ear. "Well, it's just I've had a lot on recently, y'know."

Abe humphs a little, black eyes soft, liquid. "It's coming up to the anniversary next month."

It isn't a question, he knows. Old pain pierces my heart, a pain such a part of my being, now, that I can't remember a time without it. I will away the tears when he admits, very quietly, without any self pity;

"For me too. It'll be three years."

Poor, dear, heartbroken Abe. I want to hug him so much right now, but I can't, so I squeeze the books in my arms instead. He mustn't find out about Nuada. My eyes burn with tears and I dart past him, unable to bear being in the same room. I feel like such a traitor.

"I'm sorry, Cap'n," I mumble. "So sorry."

A safe distance down the corridor, I lean against the wall and try to collect myself. Banging my skull against the metal wall strut, I groan.

"What am I doing?" I ask the universe in general.

The stress is getting to me. Lurching into the ladies toilets, I place the books on the window ledge, splash some cold water on my face and try, unsuccessfully, to look my reflection in the eye. The door clicks and Abe is standing there, fingertips pressed together, looking uncomfortable at his breach of gender protocol, but determined.

"Abe!" I squeak, hoping the righteous indignation of a woman faced with a man in the ladies will chase him. It doesn't.

"Whatever is going on, Aisling," he says gravely, undeterred. "I can help you, if you talk to me."

I shake my head, wipe my nose and sniffle. "You can't, this is something I can't involve you in... I'm sorry." '_Please don't hate me, Cap'n!'_

His eyes pulse, noting my body language, and he passes his sucker-palmed hand through the air. I know he can't read anything from me at this distance, with my shielding in place. He bounces on his heels worriedly, then sighs, resigned.

"Alright," he allows reluctantly. "I guess you'll tell me when you're ready. I'm here for a month, assisting Professor Murphy with her research in Anglesey. You know where to find me."

I smile and nod, weakly. "Thanks, Abe. Now, I've really gotta do what I came in here for..."

Abe jumps, mildly embarrassed, apologises and backs out of the bathroom. Relieved, guilty and feeling like an utter bitch, I retrieve the books and swear like a brickie. There was water on the ledge, a large stain working its way up the spine of the bottom book. Chris Fitzpatrick is going to kill me.


	6. From Tiny Seeds

When I return to the witchling's home, I find it in darkness, which puzzles me. The cats stream like shadow down the staircase to greet me, warm tails slipping around my ankles. Silently, I query the house guardians, who inform me she is indeed at home, but not in the house. It is past nightfall, and although spring is here, the evenings are still chill, even for someone with Fey blood. I move through the empty hall and into the kitchen, cautiously, listening. The cats trot at my heels, leaping to their food bowls, mewing piteously.

"You are fed well enough, my friends," I inform them.

Opening the back door, I step out onto the patio, take the steps in one stride and peer into the darkened garden. I can hear her voice, but not see her. She is hidden in the blue black shadows cast by the high walls and trees. Out of old habit, I look to the sky to judge the time by the position of the moon and stars. Bobbing my head, I inhale the cool air, listening to pinpoint her location. The cats bound past me, off into the night on secret errands. Aisling is talking to the spirit that resides in the hawthorn, her voice low and filled with pain. Curiously, I approach, making my footsteps heavy so she will hear and not be startled. Nonetheless, she starts and exclaims with fright, pressing a delicate hand to her breast.

I know how I appear in the dark; spectral white with eyes that glow feline when light strikes them. Often have I been called 'vampire' by humans who have chanced to see me without a glamour. She sits on the wooden bench beneath the tree, huddled around a sloshing glass demijohn, coatless, hair tumbling over her shoulders.

"You frightened the living shit outta me," she confides, drinking from a flute glass with silver leaves on the base. Then adds, as an afterthought, "_Sire_... though that's nothing unusual."

Noting the bitter, mocking tone, I catch the scent of elderflower wine and realise she is drunk. She would not dare speak to me thus if sober. In the few weeks I have been here, I have not seen her touch alcohol once. Copious amounts of herbal tea and thick, strong Columbian coffee, but not intoxicants.

"Ah, so _now_ you go quiet," she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Now there's more than one in the audience."

It takes me a moment to realise she is talking to the hawthorn spirit. There are sooty smudges of cosmetics beneath her eyes. She has been crying. I think of Nuala, of how she wept when I murdered our father, and my gut twists. There is a framed photograph on the seat next to her, of a smiling woman wearing a garland of summer flowers in her wild black hair, and a child I recognise as Aisling. I see the family resemblance immediately. Her mother? She sniffs, loudly, and lifts the demijohn from between her knees to refill her glass.

Stepping forward, I pluck it from her hands before she can pour most of it over her feet. She makes a half-hearted swipe for it, then glares at me, petulantly.

"What? So you're the booze police now?"

I hold the demijohn out of her reach. She thuds heavily back onto the bench, picks up the photograph and hugs it to her chest. Her lower lip quivers, fresh tears falling to splash on the glass as she mutters under her breath in Gaelic, the language of her forbearers. Sitting next to her on the bench, placing the demijohn on the grass, I indicate the photograph.

"Who is she?" I ask simply. I do not know why it matters, but it does, somehow.

Slowly, she holds out the picture, runs a fingertip over the woman's face. "_Máthair_."

Her mother, whom I know is dead. When I plundered her memory, this is one of many facts I absorbed. I think of my own mother, killed during a battle with the humans, so long ago I cannot even place a date.

"We were called into Delamere Forest," she says haltingly. "A few mountain bikers had gone missing, the police were mystified. Mum and I went up by ourselves for a poke around."

Her eyes are upon me, but her gaze is in the past. "It was a canine pooka the size of a shire horse. It never even stopped long enough to see we were of the blood. All I remember is seeing the thing go for us, hearing Mum scream, then coming to in hospital. The BPRD hunted it down."

Her hand strays to her stomach, fingers curling, and she is silent, breath drifting white steam on the air. She is chilled and shivering, but pays it no heed as she turns to me.

"Did you ever stop for one minute to think, Nuada?" she demands accusingly. "That all those people you slaughtered had _family_? That they had children, or brothers, parents, _sisters_?"

My jaw tightens indignantly. Who is this infant, this half-blood witch, to question me? They were hollow beings, all, concerned only with what they could acquire, or consume. Before I can retort, she laughs, humourlessly, leaning back to caress the hawthorn trunk. There are coloured ribbons tied in the branches, some new, some old and tattered. The spirit within flickers nervously, sensing my rising temper.

"You used an _elemental_ to prove a bloody point," she continues, mercilessly. "Allowed it to be killed and made the world a poorer place. Every witch in the northern hemisphere felt and mourned its death. How is that right?"

It is not right. It is one of the many wrongs I committed in my madness. I was mad, and yes, the humans made me so. Guilt now conflicts with my temper, an emotion I have not experienced in centuries. So much death. Aisling studies me, judgement in her curled lip and clenched hands. It would appear my selfless would-be guide is having a crisis of conscience. Anger bests guilt and I open my mouth to berate her, to _make_ her stop talking.

"Be quiet," I command softly, infusing the word with such threat that the hawthorn spirit retreats into the core of the tree in panic.

"Or what?" she challenges, unwisely. "You'll kill me, too? What's one more body to add to the pile?"

By the Goddess, the witchling is drawing power from the earth in preparation to fight! It is almost laughable, but I recall how she bid the spirits to her aid when we met. Her slate eyes glitter with tears, grief and fury, and although drunk, her energy centres are expanding at an impressive rate. I glimpse a triskele seal in the ether above her crown as her right hand lifts, the fingers splayed. Movement catches my eye above her left shoulder. Vaulting onto the garden wall, my lance blade sings out as the clouds part, shining in the moonlight. Aisling yelps and tumbles from the bench as a creature that looks like a huge grey wolf, but is anything but, bounces heavily from the wall and skids across the lawn.

Stepping off into space, I draw my up my knees and flip, landing in a noiseless crouch. I call to it, identifying myself, displaying my seal. If it has any sense, it will obey. As it pants and grumbles, I see no intelligence in its eyes, no spark of will. Something is very wrong. The pooka shakes its great head, bloodied drool flying from its muzzle, clock tower eyes rolling. Displaying yellowed fangs, snarling, it leaps. Dropping low, nose filled with wolfish musk, I strike, aiming for the unprotected belly meat. My blade cleaves through fur and skin, parting them down to the bone like river clay, though I have caught its ribcage rather than gut. It howls discordantly, tosses its head, tearing up clods of turf with its blunt claws.

"Yield!" I boom, flicking out my lance to its full length. "Do you not recognise your Prince?"

Apparently, it does not, as it gathers itself to leap. I snarl and crouch to spring, twisting my torso so I spin over its head. I am too quick, too nimble for the lumbering beast; it snaps and bites, trying to close its jaws on my flesh, but succeeds only in tearing the hem of my surcoat. My lance shoots across its skull, on the flat, I snap my wrist, the blade slicing horizontal, fetching off an ear. Yipping with pain, maddened, it surges past me toward Aisling, seeking easier prey. She has her back to the hawthorn, the branches casting tangled shadows across her face. Her hands come up, she steps away from the tree and into its path. Shoulders squaring, she plants her feet at hip distance, a strong, battle-ready stance, and opens her mouth.

Two things happen simultaneously; I spring to knock the foolish girl aside, to bury my blade to the haft in the creature's skull, and she utters a curse. The words are old, sibilant, hissing from her tongue with serpent menace, prickling at my scalp. In that moment, she is transformed. I can see the Fey in her moon-silvered eyes, in the absolute command of her magic. Dropping like it has been hamstrung, the pooka collapses over its own paws and lands at her feet. It is alive, but barely, grey flank heaving, twitching as the curse gnaws. Aisling lowers her hands, fingers hooked into claws, eyes huge and stricken. She stares down at the fallen pooka, mouth pressed into a bloodless line, shaking.

"It's the same one," she mutters. "Goddess, it's the same one!"

She turns to me, plucks at my sleeve. "It's the same pooka that killed Mum!" Averting her face, she covers her mouth with her hand, the colour leeching from her cheeks. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

Turning the beast over with the toe of my boot, I peer at it and shake my head. Its sloppy tongue lolls over sharp teeth, dull red eyes rolled back to the whites. It is dying, life force disassembling.

"No, it is not. It is a fetch," I frown, raise my face to the night air and scan for further threats. "Shaped to look like what you fear most. But sent by whom?"

She does not answer, lifts one narrow shoulder in a shrug, wide eyes still fixed on the creature. I realise I am stood protectively in front of her and sidestep. Retracting my lance to a suitable length, I take up her wrist, the bones reed delicate in my grip. Placing the weapon in her hand, folding my fingers over hers so she does not drop it, I bob my chin at the fetch.

"Kill it," I order. "For it will not stop, it cannot."

How well I know that. I told the red demon such when he thought he had defeated me, but I spoke truthfully. Aisling stares at the lance, one of the fabled Treasures of Eire, the fine hair on her arms raising as she senses its power.

"I hear its song," she whispers, awed. "Blood and war, such terrible beauty."

She makes to return it, shaking her head, "No, I can't, I won't. No more death."

I tighten my grip, feel her knuckles crack, but to her credit, she makes no sound. I point to the fetch. "It never had its own life, but now it suffers. Take the honourable path and end it, for both your sakes."

Mine is a binding code of honour, with no room for remorse. "End it, Aisling. I will not ask again."

There is conflict in her expression, then steel as she tugs the lance from my hand and adjusts her grip, accustoming herself to the weight and balance. The fetch is panting, very quietly, a back leg twitching like a dreaming dog. She takes a deep breath, mutters to her Goddess, and raises the lance above her head. The blow is such that the point pierces the skull, jawbone and bites into the turf beneath. Hand over hand, she heaves it out, staggering with the effort and slaps it into my outstretched hands. Then she stumbles away and vomits. Vicious animation fading from its eyes, the fetch begins to dissolve like melting tallow.

A light flickers on in upstairs window of the adjoining house, an elderly woman throws open the sash and leans out into the night.

"Aisling Grey, have you taken in stray dogs again?" she screeches. "I'll call the council!"

Trembling, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, Aisling gets up off her knees and takes a steadying breath. Muttering an incantation, she sends it winging through the air with a flick of her wrist. The elderly woman's expression slackens, she yawns, adjusts her hairnet and closes the window without further ado.

Pale, nauseated, but now sober, she faces me, attempting to gauge my current disposition. Spotting a tear in my sleeve, seeing the copper blood dripping onto the grass, her mouth forms a circle and she steps forward to examine the wound. What contradictory beings we are. She was ready to fight me scant time ago.

"I don't take any of it back, y'know," she declares, tearing a strip of material to bind the wound. "Back in the house. That needs cleaning."

I allow her to tow me across the lawn, pausing on the steps. Finding me suddenly immobile, she looks back questioningly.

"My trip was fruitful," I reveal, dryly, opening my palm. "Should you wish to see?"

She exclaims with wonder, for there in my hand lies a large, pulsing green bean. The dormant seed of a forest elemental. Her fingers hover, wanting to touch, but not daring. Solemnly, I place the seed into her hand and fold it closed.

"Keep it safe, away from water, until such time we find the right place to sow it."

Transfixed by the glow that plays across her face, her lips curl in a brilliant, overwhelmed smile, and she presses it to her heart. Her face falls, troubled, and she looks to me.

"Nuada," she begins. "I'm sor-..."

I cut her off with a firm wave. "No more talk, my wayward guide. Our ill-tempers have caused enough unrest tonight."

She nods, chastened, and opens the kitchen door. "Cuppa?"


	7. Collision

2 Weeks Later

Earbuds firmly in place, I pound down the promenade, listening to the loudest, bass-driven metal I have. The beat keeps me focussed as I run. The running keeps me fit and gives me undisturbed time to order my thoughts. Many a good idea or solution to a problem has popped into my head when I run by the river. Stopping by a green-painted bench, I stretch out a calf muscle, glug down some water and look out across the roiling grey-green expanse to the far bank. I'm still rattled by the fetch and have dedicated considerable time to tracing it. Even spell work at full moon didn't help me, which is highly unusual. My event-plotting algorithm has yielded confusing results; there seem to be thirteen occurrence centres across the world, with an equal number of minor incidences dotted across ley lines and sacred sites.

_What were you expecting? A flashing neon sign with 'rip between the worlds this way! Five quid per view, kids go free!'?_

Nin Grey has been on the phone a few times, fretting, although she covers it well. So far, I've had a woolly scarf, some mint humbugs and refills for my herb jars via courier. It must be bad if Nin's started knitting. She refers to Nuada as 'Himself' and has had about as much luck tracing the source of the fetch as I have. The Prince disappeared for three nights in a row last week, returning smelling of woodland, incense and sweat.

"My warriors are scattered, leaves in the wind. None heard my call," was all he would say.

I'm getting a little jittery over _why _Himself thinks he needs his warriors, who or what these warriors are and whether or not his field trips will put him on the BPRD's radar. Probably not. After all, he spent the better part of a thousand years as a mythical figure. When he came back, he wasn't alone, as I discovered when I opened the cupboard under my sink to find a small, hairy brownie eating chocolate biscuits. The brownie had looked at me, conker dark eyes blinking, then thoughtfully offered the hobnob resting on his knee. I made him porridge with honey and a glass of milk. I haven't had to wash a dish or empty the cat litter trays since. Pan and Pye found out the hard way that brownies aren't cat toys, fleeing into the airing cupboard, hissing, fur on end, backsides smarting from sharp kicks.

I s'pose I should be encouraged by the fact he's doing something constructive, although his idea of constructive can be, well, _destructive_. He flew into a rage when he discovered a tanker had spilled oil into the river. It took me three hours to dissuade him from killing the ship's crew, who had simply called it in and scarpered to the pub while the environmental clean-up crew got started. He settled when he realised I'd called people and arranged for vets, ecologists and environmentalists to rescue the myriad of affected wildlife. I've only just released the two herring gulls, one depressed-looking guillemot, two terns and a bedraggled water sprite I temporarily adopted to de-oil. Grudgingly, he'd admitted that not all humans were as hollow as he thought, when he found me asleep in the cellar, having dozed off sitting up to watch over them.

I resume running, the river air streaming through my hair, carrying with it a faint tinge of brine from where it meets the sea. My MP3 player whirs, changing from one playlist to another, ethereal female vocals soaring above droning chanters, flutes and bodhrans. 'Mordred's Lullaby', how appropriate, the exiled son who killed his father the King. I run until I reach the end of the promenade, then stop, panting, hands braced on my knees. The longer I spend in Nuada's company, the more I'm drawn to him, although I often want to kick him in the balls, too. He's become more personable and sometimes seeks my company, often late at night, to ask questions. I don't always understand the motivation behind what he asks, but I always answer truthfully and willingly. To do otherwise could be hazardous.

Last night, when I stood at the sink draining pasta, he came into the kitchen and reached over me to pluck an apple from the fruit bowl. As he did so, his fingers rested, just for a moment, on my shoulder, then trailed fleetingly over the nape of my neck. I almost dropped the colander in shock, but by the time I turned, he'd already gone. He's so quiet on his feet. I almost never hear him approach, unless he wants me to. Thing is, His Majesty doesn't like to be touched; he stiffens like he's made of papier mache. I don't know what's spooked me more – the fact he touched me, or how I responded. I wanted to lean back into it like a cat and purr. I wonder if it's the time of year, the energy building toward Beltane. Whatever it is, it's made me walk into the kitchen table twice, space out during a monthly meeting in work, and have some pretty full-on dreams.

It doesn't help that the Prince leaps about the garden every morning half naked, displaying enough virile masculinity to make any straight woman have a fit of the vapours. It also doesn't help that I've got into the dangerous habit of watching him, with my morning coffee, watching all that controlled power and rippling muscle. Only this morning, I caught all three resident females, myself included, intently following his every move. In the cats' case, however, I think it was the sunlight bouncing from his lance blade that held their attention. One of these days, he's going to catch me ogling. I need to focus, I need to work out what to do next. Goddess, an 'Idiots Guide to Elf-Wrangling' would be really useful right now...

Drinking down the last of my water, I jog at a gentler pace as the sun dips on the horizon, thinking of home and a hot shower. Or maybe that should be a cold shower? Thumbing the button on my MP3 player, I veer off the promenade and head for home. Shortly, I'm cantering down the cobbled street under blossoming cherry trees, a carpet of fallen pink petals covering the pavement. Trotting up the steps to the front door, I pop out my earbuds, let myself in and go through a few cool-down stretches in the hallway. Pan and Pye look up at me from their favoured spot on the stairs, fluffy tails curled around their noses, and blink lambent eyes in greeting. Prince Catnip mustn't be in – they usually wind through his ankles or try to climb on him if remains in one place for any length of time. His absences bother me less than they did, as I reason I can't do anything about them, and if he's gone and done anything dreadful, I'll know about it soon enough.

Bobbing through to the kitchen to sling my running gear in the wash, I strip off my vest, which leaves me in shorts and a sports bra. Throwing the sweaty vest over my shoulder, I dip under the sink to retrieve the washing powder. The brownie is nowhere to be seen, but I note the kitchen is sparklingly clean, including the cats' bowls. Spinning on one heel with the intention of loading the machine, I collide with six odd foot of hard muscle. I squeak with fright, my hands automatically coming up, armed with a defensive spell. The box drops to the tiles, bounces, and scatters soap flakes across the floor. Hawk eyes flashing, Nuada's fingers pincer my elbows as the words die on my tongue. I'm backed up against the edge of the sink, pinned by his hips, heart stuttering as I realise my palms are pressed to his chest. His skin burns through the thin silk. I can feel it on my forearms, my breasts, my stomach, across my thighs. I swallow, flustered, the heat blooming in my cheeks and across my collarbones as my body reacts.

He looks down at me and his fingers slide to my upper arms. I'm transfixed, suspended on tip toe, pinned like a butterfly by those eerie eyes, which have darkened to copper. The Prince doesn't move, but I feel the increased tempo of his heart beneath my hand. His head tips, a wing of snowy hair falling away from a pointed ear, and a very peculiar expression crosses his angular features. I feel like a fox-cornered rabbit and try to shrug out of his grip.

"I'm gonna have to put a bell on you," I manage to say. "You can let me go now."

Apparently slightly irritated, Nuada releases me, gives me another long and quite frankly, hungry look, and stalks from the kitchen. Leaning against the counter, I blow out a breath. My knees have decided they're not working. If he were any other man, I'd say he was seconds away from kissing me, that he was fighting the urge to do so. The brownie pops out of nowhere with a dustpan and brush and begins sweeping up the washing powder, chirring to himself.

"Bloody Beltane fires've been lit early this year," I mutter.

The brownie chirrups in apparent agreement and pats my ankle consolingly. Mopping my damp forehead with my forearm, I scurry upstairs to the shower and try not to think about His Majesty.


	8. Beltane: Ghost In The Trees

Beltane

Opening my admittedly battered picnic hamper, I peer inside and wonder if I can fit anything more inside. It's crammed with delicious things from my pantry and that I've made fresh today; moist apple ginger cake, dense, nutty spelt loaf, chilli hummus, blackberry jam, oatcakes, two bottles of elderflower wine and more. The entire house is filled with the smell of fresh bread and spices. Humming happily, I tuck a bottle opener into a tiny gap, decide I can't possibly fit anything more in, and close the lid. I love all the sabbats, but Beltane is that little bit more special. Mum conceived me at Beltane, or so she used to say, giving Dad a secret smile. She and Dad loved it. He always called her his May Queen. He called me today from New Zealand, where he's working, to tell me to be good, or if I can't be good, be careful. Still worrying about my welfare, still not quite accepting his little girl's grown up. Dad's an ecologist and just as capable a witch as any of us, though goading multinational corporations into altering their environmental policies seems to be his biggest gift. He knows nothing about Nuada. If he did, he'd be on the first plane back home. Nin and I have an unspoken agreement on the whole matter. What Dad doesn't know can't hurt him.

Using the stainless steel toaster as a mirror, I slip in my earrings and adjust the torc around my neck. It was Mum's and is very beautiful – beaten silver strands woven into a thick rope, the squat ball ends engraved with garnet-set triskele. Touching it, briefly, I smile and think of her, how we used to giggle as we prepared for Beltane. How she'd tell me I was gorgeous even when I had angry teenaged spots and a snotty-crying face, nursing my first broken heart. I miss you, _matháir_. Dad used to call me, Mum and Nin, the terrible trio; maiden, mother, crone. Usually when he thought Nin was out of hearing range. She's a dead aim with a slipper. That woman can get it round two corners and _still _catch Dad around the back of the head, I swear.

Skipping across the kitchen, I smooth my ritual cloak and dress, hunting for my boots. My dress is deep forest green, embroidered in gold silk with knot work and zoomorphic animals. My cloak is plain black wool, but lined with the same colour silk as my dress, pinned with a garnet-set brooch. The designs are ancient, handed down over the generations, but the clothes are less than ten years old. I've ritually bathed, anointed myself with sacred oils and spent more time on my appearance than I usually do in an entire week. Peering into the toaster again, I pat at my hair, which I've brushed until it gleams and braided with green and purple ribbons that trail down my back. When I'm dressed like this, I can almost see the Fey in me.

"Lookin' good, _girlfriend!_" I pout at the toaster, massacring an American accent, then pull tongues at the reflection-Aisling and chuckle.

I've decided that His Royal Arsiness and his wagonful of unresolved sexual tension can go fuck themselves, to put it bluntly. There are times when only a robust Anglo-Saxon noun will do. It's Beltane, the sap is rising and there's no way on the Goddess's green earth Himself is going to spoil it for me. It's time for all things of light, fire and fertility, heralding the return of summer. I won't neglect Her on account of one of Her most recalcitrant sons. I have my offerings, carefully stashed in my belt pouch – a lock of hair, an owl feather and a small red apple, wrinkled now from winter storage in the cellar. Feeling better than I have since Nuada unceremoniously burst into my life, I skip into the front room, lugging the hamper, to wait for my lift.

As I wait, I sing an old folk song under my breath, learnt at Nin Grey's knee, remembering how people would whip out fiddles, flutes, chanters and bodhrans at the drop of a hat. It's an Irish thing. I've got halfway through the second verse, when I become aware I'm being observed. From the tingle in my bones, my belly, that comes from Old Magic, it's Nuada.

"Beltane blessings, Your Highness," I greet, not looking away from the window. "May the bale fires light your way home."

"Blessings upon you and those of your house."

The traditional response among my people, uttered in his low tenor, causes me to turn from the glass curiously. He's stood in the doorway, dressed in black and scarlet, a V of cream flesh visible at the neck of his kirtle. Unexpectedly, I think of fire, deep earth and rainfall, and just how much I want him to touch me again. Look, Aisling, but don't touch, and definitely don't feed it.

_Sod you, elf boy, and the kelpie you rode in on!_

Inwardly, I grind my teeth as his black lips turn down wryly, as he looks at me like he's indulging a child.

"I have been in exile, died, gone to stone and returned through the Veil. Do you think I would forget the sacred times of She who granted the Wheel another turn?"

Ah, right then. We're back to spiritual point-scoring. That said, he spoke mildly, in enquiry, not rebuke. Let's test the water here. I get up, smoothing my dress so it settles around my ankles, and indicate the street.

"You should come with me," I observe boldly. "Everyone there is of the blood, in some way, so you'd have to glamour up plus ten, or they'd recognise you. Reckon it'd do you some good."

Nuada's head tips like a perching falcon and he frowns like I've suggested he cartwheel naked through the BPRD's lobby with a 'shoot me' sign superglued to his backside. Daring to step closer, I cast a skein out into the ether and draw a tiny bit of the thrumming energy suffusing the world into me, stroking it across my skin like perfume. It's subtle, female magic, as much a part of me as my soul, and I'm almost unaware I've done it until I see his pupils dilate.

"Come with me," my voice is cashmere soft, encouraging. "Dance, sing, watch the bale fires, enjoy good company. Join us as we do Her honour."

I leave the invitation hanging, realising I've curled my fingers around his gauntlet-bound wrist only when he looks down, then back to my face. He's tempted, I can see it in the almost pained expression. Abruptly, he pulls away, breaking the moment. Cradling his forearm like he's been burnt, he shakes his head.

"I think not," he says, coldly, disdainfully.

I shrug nonchalantly and turn back to the window so he can't see my disappointment. Damn him, the bloody elf arsehole.

"Your loss. Nobody should be alone at Beltane, Nuada."

No answer. I look over my shoulder, but the doorway is empty. He's gone.

*********

I do not know why I am here. I have travelled beneath the river, tracking the witchling through the ether, perched on the back of a lorry as it sped through the underwater tunnel. I told myself I was merely curious as the cars and fractured orange lights sped by. Now, I stand in the woodland on the peninsula, watching the assembled Wild Guardians as they make offerings at the massive bale fire lit in the centre of a clearing. I can feel the heat lick at my cheeks, concealed from sight and sense as I am by my will. They have been careful; a fire pit has been dug and buckets of sand stand nearby, should a stray cinder threaten the trees.

There are more of them than I expected. I count one hundred at least. The warm breeze carries their words to the setting sun, flaming gold on the horizon beyond the tree line. I have never put much faith in words, but listening now, I cannot doubt their sincerity. They wear the motifs of the Fey, the patron animals, the design of garment and adornment. In their worship, it shows in the changing hue of eyes, the barely-discernible point of an ear, a deep and abiding respect for the earth. My nape prickles, stood as I am within the protective sphere they cast before beginning the rites. I do not doubt there is magic here. Every tree spirit, minor elemental and discarnate being in the vicinity has gathered at the boundaries to observe. The air is heavy, rich, fecund with the promise of returning summer.

Aisling steps forward, gracile against the dipping sun, fumbling at her belt pouch for her offerings. The wind changes direction, stirring her hair, the deep folds of her dress. But for her skin tone and round ears, she looks Fey, gilded by firelight. She smiles at the assembly, such affection bestowed on her fellows as she speaks, in Gaelic.

"My lady, she who brought the world into being. I ask that you bestow peace upon your son, who has inflicted and suffered so much. Heal his wounds. So mote it be."

As she speaks, she tosses her offerings into the blazing fire, watching as they are consumed, their essence dissipating. She looks troubled, preoccupied. My throat constricts. My loyal guide speaks of me. The gathered folk of the blood echo her words, a rising ripple of 'So mote it be' travelling fast around the circle. They invoke on my behalf, whether they know it or not. I who would have destroyed them all without a backward glance as the Golden Army marched. I stumble away, pushing through the resistance I encounter at the edge of the protective sphere. Ignoring the protesting chatter of observing spirits, who swarm to plug the gap my passing creates, I head into the trees.

Discomforted beyond measure, though I scarcely know why, I fling myself behind an oak trunk. Bark rough against my back, the insistent press of my lance haft reminding me I have borne arms into a sacred circle, I squeeze my temples.

_Cerridwen! Why do you torment me?!_

For moments, the only sound is the blood in my ears, the crackle of flames and my fitful breathing. I am unaccustomed to being so conflicted. I ache in body and mind. Sliding down the trunk, I rest my wrists on my knees, spine sagging. Fallen so far, proud Prince! My mind shivers, stirred by phantom fingers, and my head snaps up, instantly alert. There are spirits of the ancestors here, drawn by the thinning of the veil. It is not only at Samhain they visit loved ones. I squint into the tangled trees, smudged blue grey by falling darkness and distance.

"Speak, spirit," I growl, digging my fingertips into the loam. "Do not try my patience!"

Leaves rustle to my left, the ghosted impression of a female form cast fleetingly in my peripheral vision. I look, but there is nothing. Again, but to my right, the edge of a blue cloak disappearing behind a mature silver birch tree. I leap to my feet, catching a scent so familiar, but so long removed.

"Nuala!" the name rips from my lungs.

Motionless now, I scan the clearing, desperate to catch a glimpse of my beloved twin. Closing my eyes, I can feel her nearness, but it is faded, made wraithlike. Closer, so close I could reach out and embrace her. We should never have been parted, I should have taken better care of her. The merest touch to my cheek, gentle, forgiving. I dare to crack an eyelid, see tawny eyes so like my own, but devoid of my arrogance, my cruelty. Described in drifting lines, transparent sprays of muted light and floating locks, my sister's shade smiles, sadly. I cannot move, pinioned by guilt and love.

"My sister..."

She raises a hand, stems the words bubbling on my tongue. Floating, insubstantial, my equal, my opposite, all that was good, all that I am not. How ironic that now she discourages me from speaking. She was ever coaxing my feelings from me, urging me to put them into words, into fruitful action. Her image flickers, dissipates, reforms within inches of my face. I reach to touch her, but my fingers pass through so much mist. She leans in to my ear, lips moving soundlessly, though I can hear her in my soul.

'_Let me go, my brother. My time is past. I have gone through the Western Gates. There is much for you here, if you would but reach out and claim it. She calls you – hark!'_

Drawing back, she cups my cheek, presses her lips to my brow, but all I feel is a cool dissolution, like melting snow. She lifts her face, head cocked as if listening, a mannerism we share. Again she gifts me a smile, and then dissolves into falling motes of silver light. A cry of denial leaves me, like a whip crack, but sweet Nuala is gone. The grief gnaws, the total separation of death, worse than any wound I have ever suffered. It threatens to overwhelm me, to return me to my madness, but suddenly I hear music. Flutes, guitars, fiddles, drums that I can feel in my pulse, my belly. Distracted, my head turns in their direction. Hooting, low and approving, a white owl lands on the oak branch overhead.


	9. Beltane: As The Balefire Burns

Laughing, my hands numb from beating the bodhran in my lap, I pass it to the eager teenage boy who has been bouncing on his heels for the past half hour, waiting his turn. Grinning, he thuds down into the grass and strikes up a fresh beat, shaking his head so his blond curls fly. My hamper has been well and truly pillaged. As I expected, the apple ginger cake and fresh bread went first, closely followed by the elderflower wine. Not that anyone goes hungry. Wonderful things to eat are passed around the circle, or if you get tired of waiting, just wander over and ask. Music fills the clearing, a thundering, organic melange, never ending, but changing seamlessly from one tune to the other. People are whirling, swaying and hopping around, in couples, trios and circles. I can feel the drums in my solar plexus, through the soles of my bare feet, and I want nothing more than to dance until I fall down.

Swallowing the last mouthful of cold-pressed cider in my wooden tankard, I jump up. Whooping as he skips past, a tall druid with waist length dark hair tied with crow feathers snatches my hands and drags me into the dance. Ciarán. Handsome, cheeky, uncomplicated Ciarán. En pointe to avoid him standing on my bare toes, I laugh delightedly as he mock-waltzes, then bends me over his arm like we're tangoing.

"Been a while, lass," he murmurs, dropping a stubble-scratchy kiss on my cheek.

Kicking him gently in the shins, so he pouts and pretends I've hurt him, I grab his hands and pull him into a whirling circle.

"If would've been much sooner, if that dialling finger of yours wasn't permanently sore, bugger lugs!"

Ciarán guffaws good-naturedly, firelight catching the thick silver rings in his ears, the Awen on his tunic. He's gorgeous, and if he plays his cards right, will get to play God to my Goddess tonight. He slings an arm around my waist as we dance, almost falling in a heap on the trampled grass as we bump into another couple, who whoop, apologising through gales of laughter. Whistling and clapping catches our attention and we peer across the circle. A dreadlocked witch has stripped to leggings and a tank top, pert nose wrinkled with concentration as she furiously spins fire poi. Her slender arms cross and rise, flame streaks and arcs, creating wings behind her and increased applause. Sparks suddenly fly free from the burning poi and coalesce into the form of a raven, which swoops across the clearing and disappears into the bale fire.

"Cool," Ciarán comments enthusiastically, hugging me to his side as he watches the spectacle.

I smile up at him, loop my arms around his neck and stand on tiptoe to speak in his ear. He flinches, rubs the back of his neck and wriggles his shoulders.

"Bloody hell, somebody's giving me the evils," he mutters. "Whatever it was, it wasn't me... Well, I'm _fairly_ certain it wasn't. Can you see who, Ash?"

I peek over his broad shoulder. His tone is light, playful, but I feel the tension in him. Somebody is radiating a depth of hostility that has no place in this circle. Scanning the throngs, I almost miss him, not seeing any faces I don't recognise. My gaze tracks back to between two groups of drummers. Feeling me stiffen, Ciarán's hands settle at my waist.

"What?" he asks. "Your aura's just spiked enough to power the National Grid for a week."

Extricating myself from his arms so quickly I stub my toe against his boots, I pat his chest soothingly and make to walk away. He hooks my fingertips with his, puzzled, arm outstretched.

"Erm, I've gotta go. Sorry. Catch up with you later, hon, ok?" I excuse myself and nip around the bale fire to the far side of the circle.

Flicking firelight painting red and umber across his hair and cheekbones, disguised by a seriously heavy duty glamour, is Nuada. His eyes are a clear, ice crystal blue, hair cornsilk blond, skin lightly tanned and scarification-free. I can't see his lance, but the air above his left shoulder shimmers ever so slightly, virtually unnoticeable in the twilight. He's dampened his aura, the seal at his wrists and belt altered to the Dagda, but is still drawing an equal number of enquiring and lustful glances. I dread to think the pandemonium that would break out, should somebody see him without his glamour.

"You came," I observe, dismayed as I sound pleased.

"I believe that is self-evident," he says, crisply.

Touchy, touchy, Your Highness. Doing the best thing, which is ignoring it, I rescue two clean cups and pour in some of Albert the Cunning Man's moonshine. I'm being a little mean, truth be told. I usually pre-warn anyone who's offered one of his murky bottles or a nip from his battered silver hip flask. Handing Nuada a cup, I raise mine in a toast.

"_Lá Bealtaine!_"

The Prince echoes the toast, reflexively, and takes a sip. Resting the cup rim on my bottom lip to hide my grin as his eyebrows shoot up and he suppresses a shudder. Gotcha, Elf Boy. I've drank enough of 'Uncle' Albert's special brews over the years to inwardly steel myself and kiss goodbye to my taste buds for at least an hour. Peering into the cup, then at the dancing folk, his lips crimp.

"They consume so much," he notes sourly, waving a hand to encompass the food, the drinks, and the instruments.

Folding into a lotus next to him, picking some grass from between my toes, I shake my head in disagreement.

"That's unfair," I counter. "Everything that lives consumes to some extent. Nothing exists in a vacuum. All the food you see here has been made by the people who brought it. The cups and plates will be washed and used again, or offered to the fire. No rubbish will be left. Come dawn, the only evidence of our presence will be trampled grass and a filled-in fire pit. We tread softly upon the earth, but can't help but leave some footprints. Even you." I grin and indicate the dancers and musicians with my cup. "Besides which, it's a _party_. You're meant to celebrate."

Nuada grunts, conceding the point, but says nothing. The drums fall silent and everyone looks up expectantly. Old Alice gets to her feet, levering herself up on her stick. White haired, gnarled with arthritis, but a mind so sharp her grandsons joke she sleeps in the knife drawer, she is the eldest woman here. As such, it falls to her to choose the May Queen. All the young women shift, hushed with anticipation. Alice rubs her protesting hip, makes a show of pretending to think, then points to a willowy, poppy-cheeked girl in her early twenties who has not long passed her final initiation. The girl gasps, looks to her mother, who pats her shoulder, filled with pride and love. The assembly breaks into whistling, cheering and deafening applause as she is crowned with creamy pink apple blossom and white ribbons. I see one of Alice's grandsons, nervously preening his hair before cantering over with a handmade token. Bless.

At Alice's gracious nod, the music strikes up again, livelier than before. Perhaps it's the fumes from Albert's moonshine, but I'm feeling brave as I scramble to my feet and hold out my hand.

"C'mon, don't just sit there. These are your people too, if a little removed."

Nuada clears his throat. "I do not dance."

I cock my head. There's so much he's forgotten, that he needs to re-learn. What's it going to take for His Royal Seriousness to loosen up?

"I notice you didn't say _can't dance_," I observe mischievously.

Anyone who has such a complete mastery over their movements as Himself can surely bust a move or two. Seeing he's dug his hooves in, I shrug and slip past him, outside the circle and toward the tree line, the grass cool beneath my feet. He twists to see where I'm going and I beckon to him.

"I want to show you something," I reveal.

I don't look back as I find the narrow trail, trodden by countless feet, weaving through the trees and past sinuous outcroppings of sandstone. Squeezing through a gap too small for the Prince, I emerge in a large, flat plateau, dominated by a towering sandstone monolith. The shape of a collapsed anvil, it is entirely covered in runic carvings, a channel barely wide enough for a single foot winding up to the summit. A small, cat-like thud behind me and to my left heralds Nuada's arrival. I look round as he straightens from his leap over the top of the surrounding stone.

"This is Thor's Rock," I announce. "Well, that's what the locals call it, anyway. What d'you see?"

He drifts past me, still glamoured, and lays a palm on the rock, worn smooth by the wind and rain. Chin tucking in, he slides his palm in an arc, and then turns to me.

"It's a portal to the Unseen Realm," he frowns. "But damaged, corrupted... there's _something_ within... old, destructive."

I nod, step to his side and lay my own hand on the rock. "Yes. Who d'you think keeps it sealed up? Stops whatever the hell's in there getting out and destroying everything in its way?" I tap my knuckles to by chest. "We do. We maintain the runes, re-energise the surrounding woodland so it doesn't die from etheric poisoning. We have done for generations. Are we really so hollow?"

Removing my hand, shaking the fingers to rid myself of the unpleasant tingle, I drop it to my side. Nuada appears deep in thought, chewing at his illusory human-pink lower lip. Hesitantly, I reach out and clasp his arm.

"Do we disgust you that much?"

He straightens away from the rock, blue eyes silvered by the emerging stars, impassive. Stepping into his personal space, I move my fingers to his cheek and meet his gaze. Cards on the table time.

"Do_ I_ disgust you that much?"

The last syllable has barely left my lips when he virtually lunges at me. His kiss is fierce, demanding, not in the least gentle, tongue plundering my mouth. He tastes of moonshine and something that makes me think of iron and altars. I'm crushed to his chest, his fingers gripping the back of my neck, the other arm pinning my pelvis to his. Suspended on tiptoe, completely vulnerable, I make a soft sound of surprise against his mouth, and melt like every pathetic female stereotype I've ever mocked. I can feel every glorious muscle I've admired, a spreading heat igniting in my belly as I thrust my leg between his. The Prince's hands are at my waist, slipping lower, lifting my right thigh, caught behind my knee. I lean into him, hands questing across his collarbones, shoulders lifting, pulling him to me. I need more, I want more, give me _more_.

Suddenly, he pushes me away, so hard I stumble back against the rock. The breath leaves me in a startled _whump_ and I know I'll have bruises come the morning. The glamour fizzles away, and he is bone white, ember-eyed and scarred again. Filling my lungs, I'm about to speak, but he turns on me and I can't help but cringe away. He's furious, chest heaving with the force of his temper.

"No!" he snarls, gesticulating at himself. "This is the truth of it! _This!_"

Dear Goddess, he thinks I've been beguiled by his industrial strength glamour and the Beltane energy. Stupid, short-sighted elf!

"I know!" I cry, my voice rising. "D'you really think I'd make a move on you purely 'cos of a bloody _glamour_?"

Elvish epithets hiss from between his teeth, his hands clench and unclench at his sides as he stalks back and forth like an enraged cougar. Planting myself in front of him, I reach out.

"Nuada, please, I-"

He snatches my wrist before I can touch him, moving so quickly all I see is a white blur, and I cry out with sudden pain. I'm sure I can feel the bones grind. Only marginally releasing his vice grip, he stares coldly down at me.

"You are not worthy," he states, in a tone of voice I presume he reserves for Royal proclamations. Charcoal lips twist as he sneers, "Polluted by your impure human blood. You are not noble, you have no right to my attentions."

Throwing down my wrist, which wrenches my shoulder, he draws himself up. This time I refuse to show he's hurt me, my own temper boiling, words rising like bile from the pit of my stomach.

"You haven't learnt anything I've tried to teach you!" I fume before he can let off another salvo, feeling the wind skirling through the furrows of Thor's Rock lift the braids at my shoulders. "How can I guide you, when you behave like this?" Gritting my teeth, I growl at him. "Sort your shit out, and _never_ touch me again!"

Then I turn and storm away, not caring about the sharp stones and twigs beneath my bare feet, flipping two fingers up over my shoulder, which is admittedly, rather childish. Risking a glance back when I get to the threshold, the plateau is empty. He's done the disappearing act again.


	10. Beltane: Wild Hunt

I am so angry with him, the arrogant, racist, elf arsehole! For a moment, I stand in the hallway, fists clenched, and call him all the worst names I can think of. I feel my house guardians shift restlessly in the ether, disturbed by my temper. What's wrong with him? No, forget that. I _know_ what's wrong with him. He's older than Christ, had a borderline inappropriate attachment to his sister, spent several dozen lifetimes in exile with only a troll for company and is completely, utterly _fucked up_. Why am I even surprised? The way he looked down his nose at me contemptuously, I know it shouldn't hurt, but it does.

"Why did you even kiss me, you banjaxed wee _bastard!_" I yell at the ceiling.

Bits of colloquial Irish always come out when I'm cross, despite the fact I only lived in Cork until I was five. Frustrated, I spit out a long stream of Gaelic curses that would make even Nin Grey raise an eyebrow. I should be careful, sometimes, with witches, the curse can stick and become real in the heat of the moment. I check that I'm not pointing and find, to my inestimable relief, I'm not.

I bite my lip and try to stop trembling. He tells me it's the glamour, the disguise of blond hair, human skin and blue eyes, but I know he's lying. There was something desperate in the way he responded when I touched his face, the hitch in his breathing, like I'd broken some invisible barrier. I don't know where His Royal Pain in the Arse even is. I fled from him, from the censure of his gaze, the taste of him on my lips. Touching my mouth, my lips feel tender, almost swollen, my body still tingling, yearning. Bloody hell, I'm so turned on I can't think straight.

I know I'm supposed to 'bridge the gulf', but I'd naively assumed that mean a cultural and spiritual void between the races. A proud Son of the Earth, Nuada scornfully refers to the hole inside humans that can never be filled, while entirely overlooking the chasm inside his own being. Shouldering off my cloak, I sit on the stairs, following the train of thought. It all comes down to sex, life and death in the end. You can't separate that trinity. The union of the god and the goddess creates life as the wheel of the year turns, the cycle of birth, death and resurrection what keeps the world in balance. Nuada and Nuala's unscheduled deaths threw that mechanism out; the Fey are intrinsically linked to the earth, they are Her children. What if...? I know it's Beltane, but this is outrageous! I snort and shake my head, grimly amused.

_So, all I've gotta do is shag the Prince ragless and hey presto, all fixed. Ridiculous. Nothing is ever __**that**__ simple. Stop thinking with your ovaries!_

Morose now, I prop my chin on my folded arms, lower lip jutting, and try to suppress the demanding throb between my thighs. I try to summon Ciarán's face to mind, my druid from Cumbria who always has grass in his hair, moorland mud on his boots and a secret twinkle in his eyes. Last Beltane, my coven gathered at a celebration on a private Lakeland estate, complete with woodland, a lake and a leyline running through the middle of the grounds. Ciáran tied a purple ribbon in my hair, crowned me May Queen with apple blossom, took my hand and led me into the woods. It's a lovely memory. I think of his large, rough hands, woodsman's shoulders and loud, unselfconscious laughter. I last saw him at Samhain, when we made insubstantial promises to visit each other more often. Ciáran... Celtic knot tattoo on his bicep, bringing me breakfast in bed wearing nothing but Homer Simpson slippers and a cheeky grin. I can't do it. There's nothing there now but Nuada's golden eyes, sculpted marble body and low, tenor voice shaping my name with an old-world inflection.

_Shit...._

Hanging my coat on the banister, I trudge upstairs, leaving my boots on the landing. Touching my index finger to the carved amber statue of Cerridwen on the landing window ledge, I sigh.

"I don't s'pose blaming you will do me any good?"

No answer, except from my restless house guardians, whom I silently bid return to their watch. Padding into my bedroom, I close the door with my heel and undress, throwing my clothes into the laundry basket. Pausing before the full length mirror, a froth of Victorian Gothic gilt that belonged to a great, great auntie somewhere, I examine my reflection critically. I'm thirty two, Celtic pale, freckled here and there, with runner's legs, a small waist and generous hips. I have a nasty scar across my lower stomach, hidden by my underwear, another under my hair at the nape of my neck. I'm tall enough that I find it hard to get things to fit properly in shops, but not tall enough to draw comments. I have rather a serious mouth, until I laugh, and light grey eyes. I also have the Adair glare – a temper glower inherited from Mum's side of the family. I tend to attract men who are bad for me, or older men I don't find the least bit appealing.

Running my hands down my body, my nipples peak inside my bra, images of Nuada training with his lance in the garden slipping through my mind. I need to get this out of my system or I won't be able to sleep, although I'm deluding myself if I think I can rest with His Majesty out there somewhere, unchaperoned. Flopping onto the bed, a queen size indulgence I found at an antique fair, I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and growl with frustration. Head wedged between the pillows, I tuck a plush green throw cushion under my neck and stare at the ceiling. Running my knuckles over my stomach, lightly, I dip my fingers into my knickers, over the scar, and brush aside the soft hair. Parting the labia with my index and ring fingers, I circle the hood of my clit with the middle. Closing my eyes, I allow the memories back, conjuring up his tongue plunging past my lips as he kissed me, the radiating heat of muscle as he engulfed me in his arms, crushing me to his chest. Elves, it seems, run hotter than humans or half breeds.

My finger moves quicker, clit enlarged and sensitive, nerve clusters ablaze with need. Nuada, cross-legged on the floor before the fireplace, intently constructing a reliquary for the elemental seed, shirt open to the waist. Why does he have to wander around half-dressed? I moan, quietly, feeling myself moisten further, raising my hips. I think of how he looked at me when I returned from my evening run, tawny eyes devouring me from ankles up. A loud knock at the door brings reality crashing in, and I freeze, eyes wide, horrified as I hear his voice on the other side.

"Aisling."

Damn my house guardians! Why didn't they alert me? Why didn't I hear the front door or the wobbly stair that needs fixing? Why.... Shit! Swallowing, I try to calm my racing heart, unsure if he can hear it through the door. Stretching out my legs, I glare at the white gloss paint.

"I've nothing to say to you, _Your Highness_," I inject as much contempt into the title as I can. "You've made your position clear."

I hear him sigh, loudly, and the floorboards creak as he shifts his weight to the other foot. When he speaks, his voice is low, weary.

"I have offended you."

No kidding. I glare at the door again, willing the expression through the wood and into his thick, elf skull. He begins to speak, skirting round the words he can't take back; unworthy, impure, non-noble, _human_.

"I cannot give you what I... what _you_ want," he says heavily, eventually. "I am conflicted, and that I cannot abide."

A small thud as he leans his forehead against the door. I think he expects understanding, perhaps even a pardon or an apology from me. Tough luck. I'm angry and my temper makes me _really_ stubborn. I curl my lip and resume touching myself, the fact he is only ten foot away and could open the door at any moment increasing my arousal. I bite my lip, hard, letting only shuddering sighs out, and swirl a fingertip into my vulva. Silence for almost a minute. I can see the shadows of his feet under the base of the door.

"Aisling," he sounds haughty now, irritated. "What are you doing?"

The shadows slide apart, a tiny percussion on the wood telling me he has braced his palms against the frame. Involuntary, a moan bursts from me as I slide in another finger. I smile and sneer at the door as the floorboards pop, he snaps upright so quickly.

"Witchling," he growls. "Answer me."

There is something dark, sinister and aroused in his voice that makes me shudder deliciously. I pause, resting my still fingers on my engorged mound, listening as he inhales. He's not the only one with good ears. Can he smell me? I hope he can and it's driving him off the deep end, though I really shouldn't provoke him.

"Giving myself what you won't lower yourself to," I purr, without raising my voice. I know he can hear me. "And it feels _good_."

A sharp intake of breath from the other side of the door. I don't suppose the ladies of the court are so frank. The thought amuses me and I chuckle, sliding my fingers back down, feeling my own wetness.

"I am a pure blood elf, Lord of the Unseen Realm!" he shouts suddenly, the door frame juddering as he pounds a fist. "Why do you tempt and goad me? My patience runs short!"

He's highly indignant, but I hear the doubt creep into his tone. He isn't sure he's right anymore. Listen to your blood, listen to your masculinity, to the inner God. I am the Goddess and I am calling you to the Wild Hunt. Time to lose that prejudice, Your Royal Smugness. Open the door, come to me.

"You're a man, Nuada!" I retaliate, self-assuredly. "And last time I checked, I'm a woman. I don't see why the shape of my ears makes such a big bloody difference! You may be Royal, you may be Fey, but before all that, you're a _man_. Or have you forgotten that _you_ kissed _me_?"

The door crashes back with such force it bounces from the corner of my dresser, scattering jewellery and books. Striding into the room, eyes aflame, hair loose like flying silk, he is across the floor and has me pinned down in an eye blink. He is breathing hard and fast, lips an inch from mine, teeth bared, and for an instant, I'm afraid. I've prodded the leopard with a stick once too often. His gaze rakes me and I blush, but scowl back at him, challenge still in place. I won't fear you, I won't. Nuada pulls at my wrist, bringing my damp hand to his face and nuzzles the palm.

"No," he breathes harshly, with difficulty. "I have not forgotten."

He slips my middle finger into his mouth, rolls it on his tongue, all the while fixing his amber eyes on mine. Other hand snaking down my belly, he strokes me through the thin cotton of my underwear, grinning savagely as the colour flames in my cheeks. Hooking aside the material, he finds the swollen bud and describes a slow figure of eight as my hips buck a little. Oooh, the elf knows how to please a woman, though right now his thinking is more along punishment. His erection presses my hip, demanding. I shift my thigh, feeling him strain against me through his clothing. Pulling my fingers free, I cup his jaw and kiss him, my other hand working at the crimson sash binding his shirt. The Prince growls into my mouth, then his lips are at my throat as he unclips my bra and fills his eager hands with my breasts. I laugh, realising I had not expected an elf to be familiar with modern underwear. He steals the laughter with another bruising kiss as I drag his shirt off him, dipping his head to lap at a nipple, milk white hair trailing across my sensitised skin. I pull my nails down his back, lightly, and test the flesh at the juncture of his neck and shoulder with my teeth.

"Siren!" he accuses, my hands at his chest, caressing, shaping the contours of muscle, playing lower.

I pinch his nipple by way of response, nip his lower lip and find the fastening on his pants. Nuada groans as I wrap my fingers around him, fiery eyes screwing shut as I tease and stroke, pushing him over onto his back. He collapses into the pillows and I kneel above him, watching with satisfaction as his ribcage heaves. Wriggling out of my knickers, I straddle him, stroking him between my thighs, stroking myself with his thick shaft without allowing him to penetrate me. His chin tips back with anticipation and I stop, pressing my cheek to his, murmuring into his ear. Eyes bursting open, he looks at me incredulously, panting, wanton. Leaning over him, his hands at my waist, I open the bedside drawer and pluck out a condom. He seizes the opportunity to press his face between my breasts, breath hot and damp against my skin.

He hisses as I unroll the sheath over his length, causing me to smile. I've finished with foreplay, I want him inside me, now. Parting my legs further, I drop my hips and guide him, moaning with pleasure as he fills me. He gasp-mutters something in Elvish I don't understand and reaches for me, levering himself up so our faces are level. Kissing him, hungrily, locking my arms around his neck, I mould myself to him and begin the ritual dance in earnest. His arms close about me, irresistible, inescapable, lips at my collarbone, and we shudder and gasp in tandem. Suddenly, he rears and throws me down, hand shooting out under my head to stop it colliding with the headboard. Poised over me, braced on his palms, he smiles, such fierce joy in the expression. The Prince, after all, was raised to be dominant in all things. I gaze expectantly back up at him, winding a lock of his hair around my fingers. Looping my legs over his shoulders, he breathes more Elvish in my ear, which I do understand and laugh. Who'd have thought a noble Fey had such a marvellously dirty mouth?

Kissing the inside of my thigh, he grins wolfishly, and is inside me again. I growl and lift my hips to meet his thrust. The angle is different, deeper, so _good_, but almost painful. I yelp, involuntarily, and he pauses mid stroke.

"You wanted this," he reminds me, raggedly, eyes dark.

I discern the hidden question, has he hurt me, does it matter if he has? At one time, it would not have mattered to him, now it does. Shifting my pelvis so I am more comfortable, I snarl at him and drum my heels on his back, urging him on.

"Don't you dare stop!" my voice doesn't sound like me at all, husky, commanding.

He plunges deep inside in answer, a trickle of sweat winding down his spine, gleaming across that unearthly white skin. I constrict my inner muscles around him in waves, just for the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. There is only him, inside me, gliding, possessing, pleasing, stoking the flames ever higher. There isn't elf or mostly-human, just man and woman, our mouths are our chalice, our tongues our swords. Blood pounds in my ears, a sudden building tension in my vulva and clit. I smell musk, incense and my apple shampoo in his hair. His breathing comes in increasing gasps as he thrusts faster and I know he is about to climax. Nuada groans hoarsely and I feel him come. Tipped over the edge too, I clutch at him, back arching, overwhelming pleasure sizzling through me in a molten rush. I scream as I orgasm, so hard that the world tilts and I almost faint.

Dear Goddess, if I never get to have such mind-blowing sex again, thanks for the one-off spectacular.

Forehead on my shoulder, the Prince lifts his face, blows the hair from his glittering eyes and peers at me, languidly. "Satisfied, witchling?"

I nod emphatically as he eases himself out of me and I gather his hair at the nape of his neck, smoothing it from his cheekbones. Running a fingertip around the Celtic spiral scarification at his temple, I ask, archly, "Satisfied, Your Majesty?"

He surprises me by laughing, deep, ringing peals that bounce from the walls, and nods gravely. I've not heard him laugh before. I note with private glee that he is a tad unsteady on his feet as he strides to the ensuite to flush the condom. I feel empowered, consummately feminine. Stretching luxuriantly, I wait for him to return, shaking my dishevelled hair over my shoulders. As the afterglow fades, I begin to get anxious. I may have just made a huge mistake. He has been less volatile lately, but I'm under no illusion the wolf has sprouted a lambs fleece. Just as I am about to get up, he ambles back into the room, regal and confident in his alabaster nakedness. He scoops up his shirt, sash and trousers, then looks unsure of himself, dare I say it, almost shy. He's deciding if he wants to stay, or if he is even welcome. I wait quietly. This is his decision, and will be a good indicator of his state of mind. Stopping at the foot of the bed, he looks at me like I'm something good to eat, then drops his eyes respectfully.

"May I stay?" he asks, formally, spreading his hands, as if to show he's unarmed.

Realising this is the first time he's been without his lance, I scoot up against the pillows and hold out my hands.

"Come here," I murmur, softly.

Nuada drops his clothing, hops up and lounges next to me, kissing my knuckles, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand. Tracing a fingertip down the valley between my breasts, he appears to be building up to speak. I wait for him to find whatever words he is searching for.

"I insulted you, for that I ask your forgiveness."

"Consider it given," I reply. The Crown Prince of Bethmora has apologised. You could knock me down with a feather. I can't resist adding, however, "For now."

He looks at me askance, black lips turning down, then realises I'm teasing and snorts, mildly peeved. Like any other man, he's getting post-coital sleepy, and yawns. This time, I don't dare laugh, acclimatising him to gentle mockery is going to take time. Determinedly, he pulls me into his arms, where I nestle, head on his chest, listening to his heart. The distaste for being touched seems to have evaporated. Skin to skin, satiated, I can sense the treasure chest of his mind, padlocked with silver.

'_How long've you been alone, Nuada?'_ I ask silently as he touches my hair, almost hesitantly.

I feel him exhale, breath stirring the hair at the crown of my head. He doesn't answer immediately, but then; _'Far longer than any being should have to endure.'_

I see castles and armed warriors, archers with longbows and mail surcoats. Silk banners in the breeze. I see my home city evolve from a tiny coastal fishing village into the largest sea port in the country. Impulsively, I hug him so hard his ribs creak.

'_You don't have to be alone anymore.'_

The Prince doesn't reply and I don't prompt him, but his arms tighten around me. I resolve to hold onto the moment for as long as it may last, and not hope for anything more. Presently, he relaxes, his breathing slows and he falls deeply asleep. I suspect this is the first time he has truly slept since his resurrection. I consider reaching for the bedcovers, but realise I'm warmed sufficiently by his body. Lulled by his beating heart, it's not long before I join him.

*********

When I first wake, roused by a sleepy blackbird heralding the approaching dawn, I wonder what the slow, relaxed tempo is. I realise it is Aisling's heart. She lies curled against my side, head pillowed at my shoulder, one lithe leg slipped between mine. Her face is obscured by an unruly magpie wing of hair, which I smooth back, watching as her eyes slide beneath closed lids as she dreams. Most of the ribbons have fallen from her hair, scattered across the bed linen. I look down at our intertwined bodies, at the slight swelling of her mouth, the sign of a woman truly ravished. She is beautiful, wily and determined; she called me to the Wild Hunt and when I resisted, broke me down. And such little effort it took. A millennium could not change my mind, but she did so merely by reminding me I am a man before anything else. I could not command, so was forced to obey the call of my blood, my loins. I should be angry, having broken my word to myself, but I am not. Instead, I feel at ease, another of my former life's prejudices shed. Inhaling her scent, I drift off to sleep again.

When I next wake, my arms are empty, which disconcerts me more than it should. I sit up quickly, only to see her hopping around the bedroom floor as she wrestles with stockings, a purple blouse half buttoned up. Her hair is damp from the shower, pinned messily atop her head, mobile phone, keys and identity pass on the dresser. She spots I am awake and smiles, like the sun breaking through clouds, perching on the end of the bed.

"Morning," she greets.

She is anxious, I see it immediately. The morning after the night before, when daylight makes complex what seemed so simple in the dark. Slithering forward, I embrace her, pulling her back against my chest, pressing my lips to her throat and brow. She turns in my arms to kiss me, lips soft, mouth tasting of spearmint. Sliding my hands under her blouse, savouring her warmth, her skin, I deepen the kiss, guiding her into the crook of my elbow to lay her on the mattress.

"No, I'll be late," she sighs, eventually, with considerable reluctance. Her cheeks are flushed, nipples hard beneath her blouse as she pushes at my chest. "Gotta keep up appearances with the BPRD."

Allowing her up, I throw myself back onto the pillows with a dramatic sigh. "Tell them you have been kidnapped by a Fey Prince, who means to keep you bound with pleasure."

Aisling stops and gives me a long, hard look. "Did you just make a _joke_, Your Royal Haughty-ness?"

Lazily, I meet her gaze and smile at her, gratified as she blushes. Your Lord has been summoned, caught and bound, my Lady, but the leash goes both ways. What will you do now? She shakes her head, chuckles and resumes searching for her heeled shoes. Why do human females insist on deforming their feet? I watch her, one hand curled beneath my head, the other draped across my stomach. She bends to retrieve a skirt, the morning light streaming through the paned glass outlining her buttocks and thighs. Recalling the previous night, her wicked mouth and supple flesh, how it felt to be inside her temple, I feel myself stir.

"Come here, Aisling," I purr, my voice deep and rough. "Tell them your train was cancelled. Tell them the sky fell upon your head. Tell them anything you please, but come back to bed."

She straightens, half turns to me in enquiry, the skirt dangling from her hand. Her mouth parts, eyebrows lifting as her gaze tracks from my face downwards. She moistens her lower lip, eyes glittering, and drops the skirt.

"Wrong kind of leaves on the line, chicken little," she murmurs, although the significance escapes me.

Then she comes to me and my selfish heart leaps with triumph. She may have won the opening sortie, but the war has just begun. To the victor go the spoils, and with her, how sweet it will be to take them. Stripping her of her stockings, which are like so much transparent silk, I kiss the arch of her foot. She giggles helplessly and wriggles her toes.

"Ticklish! Stop!"

A weapon for the arsenal, so much the better. I kiss the other foot until she writhes, swears and threatens to kick me in the face. She looks so indignant I cannot help but laugh. Such simple pleasures, so long denied me. Moving up to her calf, the sensitive skin behind her knees, I splay my hand on her flat belly, feel the subtle tension in the muscle there. Describing the curve of her hip bone, hearing her sigh, I rest my lips in the hollow next to it, just above her mound. Her breath hitches and she murmurs my name, tangling her fingers in my hair. Lathing my tongue across the ragged scar, I look up at her.

"What is this from?"

Aisling's eyes cloud, turning the colour of a winter sky. Her fingers move from my scalp to the shiny tissue.

"The pooka," she says quietly. "That's the reason there'll never be any more of my family line."

No children, nobody to carry on the traditions, to learn the secrets, to carry her family name. No more of the blood. Truly, we are the last of our kind. A dreadful thing. She sounds resigned, the sorrow old, kept buried, covered. I kiss the scar, take her palm, kiss that, and her wrist.

"Were it not dead, I would hunt it down for you." I am surprised by the ferocity in my tone, and discover I mean every word. Strange, indeed.

She smiles, mingled sadness, warmth and a trace of irony. "You would?"

I meet her gaze. "I was a champion, once."

She nods, curling her pink fingers around my white. "I know. 'Valiant Nuada of the silver lance, who subdued the Firbolg of blood, for love of the Tribe, for pains of Danu's children, hold thy shield over us, protect us all'."

The Book of Lecan, tales from before the Golden Army, before my heart filled with hatred for mankind. She has many old books in her study, some mundane, some spelled, but this book I have not seen. Where has she found this text? Of course – the BPRD.

"That time has passed." Do I sound bitter? Perchance. "Too much has happened."

Aisling shakes her head, minimally. "No, it's a choice. Fresh start, remember? 'Choose life'."

Again with the secret smile and quotations I do not recognise. I do not reply, and she does not press me. How often she does this, dropping tiny seeds for me to take up and discard or germinate as I will. Too many possibilities I do not want to consider at present.

"What I choose at this moment," I warn darkly, framing her waist with my hands. "Is how quickly I have you begging, witchling."

Desire chases the shadows from her expression and she reaches back, groping for the bedside drawer. How well I understand her caution; after all, humanity carries so much fluid-borne filth. I shake my head and catch her wrist, to which she frowns at me, surprised.

"You do not need the sheath, Fey carry no such disease."

A strange look crosses her face, which I kiss away, returning my attention to the temple between her thighs. I speak truthfully, which she verifies with a light touch to my mind, but I also want to feel her without a barrier of latex. Inhaling the scent of her arousal, thick, opalescent, intoxicating, I lower my head and set about implementing my choice. She will be begging, soon enough.


End file.
